#squelching leeches

[mtg-cards-hourly]

Squelching Leeches

Setting foot in their muck is an open invitation.

Artist: Svetlin Velinov TCG Player Link Scryfall Link EDHREC Link

[lowkeycasanova]

luffy a munch fr.

WAAAAAIIIIIIITTTTT YOURE ONTO SOMETHING

**

luffy x afab!reader

plot: he doesn't necessarily want anything in return, he just likes to eat you out

NSFW

Luffy's an eater.

Breakfast, lunch, dinner, anytime, anywhere.

The smile that comes across his face when you spread your legs for him is unmatched. He bends down, his wide grin showing off his pearly whites reflect his boundless enthusiasm. His eyes sparkle with joy as he cups your legs to bring you closer while coming closer to meet you halfway.

His mouth initially covers your entire pussy, as if to accommodate for his voracious appetite. The squelching noises equal satisfaction followed by some kisses as he continues.

The taste of you explodes in his mouth, rich and savory, and he's just as excited as if this was his first time. There are times when he's honestly not doing it for you, he's doing it for himself. He's hungry and he's going down on you like it's his last meal.

He eats with gusto. You briefly look at him and he's got this look in his eye that lets you know that he's so happy to be here. Each suck of your supple flesh is accompanied by enthusiastic moans and he closes his eyes to enjoy it.

Despite how excited he is, the movements of his lips and tongue are swift and precise.

Your arousal and his saliva flow freely, coating his tongue, running down his chin, and he's got some on his cheeks but he pays it no mind. It's so wet, it's ridiculous. He be drowning and not coming up for air. In his mind, if he dies, well at least he was happy.

Call him a leech the way he's stuck to you.

But it's all fun and games until he thinks you taste a little too good and starts biting.

[rabidbatboy]

♱ GORE / FLESH / VISCERA ID PACK . . .

NAMES ; fester , leech , wound , butcher , grime , scum , blade , hound , molar , corpse , razor , mortis , revenant , spite , carcass , spike , danger , tooth , zomb , roadkill , carrion , killer , deadmeat , bones , brute , rib , rot , necro

PRNS ; squish / squishs , flesh / fleshs , meat / meats , gut / guts , blood / bloods , teeth / teeths , gore / gores , viser / viscera , skin / skins , squelch / squelchs , scab / scabs , sinew / sinews , entrail / entrails , slice / slices , wound / wounds , fester / festers , bone / bones , corpse / corpses , intestine / intestines

TiTLES ; the one covered in guts , the bloody thing , the one whose entrails fell out , the sickening thing , [X] gorey mess , the pile of flesh , the pit of squirming meat , [X] who rips flesh , [X] who tears skin , the festering meat , [X] twisted mutilation , the thing of nightmares , the one dripping blood , [X] whose body is rotting , the living corpse

iDENTiTiES ; goreboy/goregirl , goreimagic , gorebeing , slashgoreic , caeduerine , visceralexic , bloodimric , bloodcovic , visceraesic , gorelexic , intestinaesic , goremc , fleshboy/fleshgirl , woundthing , goremeatian , gendergore , meatboy , bloodgender , meatabyss , fleshlexic , fleshgoregender , fleshthing , viscerarian

🦇 ——— REQ BY ; @alphabet-mafia-collective

[ PT: gore/flesh/viscera id pack

names;

prns;

titles;

identities; (links)

requested by; @/alphabet-mafia-collective / END PT]

[starlessea2]

That It Is (Astarion)

Pairing: Astarion x Reader [Baldur's Gate 3]

Summary: After a long day trudging through the sunlit wetlands, you discover your bedroll is waterlogged, and that Astarion has lost his in the swamp... AKA, the classic: ‘oh no, there’s one bed, whatever shall we do, darling?’ (Act 1 spoilers).

A/N This one has a tad more enemies-to-lovers vibe to it, but sweetness nonetheless. 

Masterlist

Night was creeping over Faerûn.

After a day of toiling through the deep murk of the sunlit wetlands, your party had found refuge: an abandoned shack a little ways inland from the swamp. It was unassuming enough through the fog that Gale had tripped over its porch, and even Astarion’s darkvision had missed the contours of the old building tucked away. 

But once scoped, you found that the place was empty. Shadowheart deemed it safe enough for you to unpack your bedrolls and dry your waterlogged boots. So you did just that—even managing to rouse a fire with an ignis and a few pieces of damp wood. 

The flames took a few moments to blaze to life, but once they did, the warmth was heavenly on your skin. One by one, you started to shed your wet outer garments, laying them out by the fire.

“Oh, bloody hells!”

A voice rang out over the crackling hearth. You turned to find Astarion on his knees, rummaging through his supply pack half-deranged.  

He flung the contents out onto the floor: some soggy books, a cask of water, pristinely-folded clothes. Then he promptly turned the pack upside down, seemingly devestated to find nothing else inside.

The rogue threw his hands up. “Gone,” he declared, with a dejected sort of laugh. “Be it just my luck after trudging through this gods forsaken waste—”

From the corner of the room, Shadowheart stopped wringing out her gloves. She gave you a look. Deal with him, she said through the shared connection. 

With a sigh, you conceded. “What’s wrong, Astarion?” You stood over the pale elf, hand on hip, “Broken a nail?” 

Irritation painted his face, but his demeanour remained playful.“Ha! Hilarious as always, my dear,” he replied, without sparing you so much as a glance. “Alas, I’m afraid my situation is a tad more dire.” 

You clicked your tongue. “Go on.”

Astarion stood up, taking a moment to dust himself off. “It seems I’ve lost my bedroll somewhere in that bloody marsh,” he finally admitted. 

Somewhere across the room, Shadowheart’s snort was quickly covered up by a faux cough from Gale. “Oh?” you said, “I thought elves didn’t need to sleep.” 

Astarion shot you a glare. “And do you need to dry your clothes by the fire? Need to eat tonight or, gods forbid, drive us half mad with your infernal singing sometime tomorrow?” 

He stalked the cabin, pointing vivaciously at your drying garments, and menial rations you’d hoped wouldn’t spoil. 

You felt your brow furrow at his display. “No need to be rude,” you said shortly. “Today’s been hard on all of us.” Pushing past him, you quickly retrieved your own pack from its place near the door. “Here—just take mine.”

Fishing around the bag, you searched for your own bedroll before producing it for him. Astarion let out a sound of disgust. 

“You could at least try to be grateful, Astarion,” you started. Then you felt it; your trusted bedroll squelched in your hand. It was pasted with a layer of thick algae, and some other mysteries you couldn’t discern. “Son of a—” you cursed. How had you forgotten when it rolled into the marsh earlier in the day?

A hand found your shoulder. “Thanks for the generous offer, my dear, but I think I’ll pass,” Astarion said, proudly. He then flicked a rather large leech off your bedroll, causing Gale to shriek when it landed at his feet. “I’d like to remain the only bloodsucker around here.”

You were about to quip back, when Astarion stepped closer—enough so that his breath dusted your cheek when he spoke. “And I think I spy a bed in the other room. That should do me just fine.” 

It took you a moment to unravel his words. By the time you did, he’d already traipsed halfway across the cabin. “Hang on a moment,” you called after him,“I already staked my claim on that earlier!”

“Hmm?” the elf hummed, feigning ignorance.

The audacity. You shot a glance back at the wizard, who immediately threw his hands up in surrender. “Oh no, you don’t,” warned Gale, “I’m staying out of this one.”

To his left, Shadowheart looked equally unbothered by your plight. You scowled at them both. 

It was going to be a long night.

—

The cabin was quiet. It had been some time since you had rested in a place with a roof and four walls. There were no beasties lurking near your camp, or dangers beyond the trees. The only threat to your person was Gale’s snores coming from the main living space. He’d taken refuge on the floor, whilst Shadowheart seized the chaise lounge. 

It was a comfortable night. So in principle, you should have had no problem falling into a dreamless sleep. Especially given the feather bed at your back. 

“You know, my dear,” Astarion whispered, “I might have agreed to this arrangement, but that was under the condition that you get some sleep.”

You tried not to startle, but his words sounded so close to your ear. It made your skin prickle with anticipation—despite doing your utmost not to show it. 

“I think you’ll find I was the one who was forced to agree,” you countered, “and I’m trying. You just—” 

Shifting in the bed, you turned around to face the elf beside you. He was leaning on one arm, gazing up at the wooden ceiling as though he were watching the stars. His eyes found yours. “I what?” he asked. 

You could hear his grin; he was teasing you. But you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of backing down now. “You make me nervous,” you answered bluntly. 

He did not reply. Each second of silence that passed made you more and more uneasy. You couldn’t see him well in the dark. And as much as you tried to make out the contours of his face, you knew for sure discern every line on yours—every expression you hoped to conceal. “And why’s that?” he finally asked.

You let out a huff before falling onto your back. “You know why. Stop acting so smug—It doesn’t suit you."

Astarion’s laugh made its way to you. “Everything suits me, darling.” 

A witty remark alluded you, so you opted to stay quiet. Sleep was what you needed right now. The gods only know how deprived you were of it.

So you plumped your pillow and made yourself comfortable. Then you gathered some blankets to yourself. A yawn left you, but your mind felt anything but relaxed. You readjusted again, this time your body pressing into Astarion's. He moved to accomodate you; you stiffened in response.

“Will you stop wriggling around? I can’t so much as move without you flinching."

At his words, your breath hitched. You were midway through an apology before he interrupted.

“Look at me,” he said.

Despite the darkness, his thumb perfectly traced your jaw until it found the space just under your chin. Gently, he coaxed your head up.

“You know I’ve drank from you, right?” You gasped at his candidness. “I've felt your pulse on my tongue and your blood coat my teeth,” he went on. “Hells, I have your thoughts swimming in my head far more often than you probably realise.”

He paused for a moment, and in that time you breathed twice as fast as you ought to.

“You’ve allowed me that much, so sleeping beside me like this?” he said, with a lightness to his voice, “that shouldn’t matter, now should it.”

You couldn't reply. His words were likely meant to comfort, but they had only the opposite effect. As his fingers brushed your cheek, you immediately pulled back—hoping he did not feel the way you burned for him.

“No. I guess not?” you stuttered.

“Good,” came his reply. “Now sleep. I promise I won’t bite” 

He returned to his side of the bed, not overstepping the invisible boundary you'd drawn earlier that evening.

And on your side, you were left to press down whatever feelings threatened to bubble to the surface. You weren’t quite ready to let them out yet—not when you couldn’t see clearly the face he would make in response.

Right now, you just needed to sleep.

So you focused on the snores echoing from the other room, the rain pattering the windows, Astarion's breaths and your heart—which, without realising, had recently started to beat for him.

“Goodnight, Astarion,” you whispered into the dark.

“Yes, my dear," he said softly. "That it is."

[frostbitebakery]

Part 1

Part 2

“We’re losing him!”

“Hold on, Obi-Wan. It’s not your time yet.”

“The infection is eating through the thyroid.”

“Stabilize him!”

“It’ll be alright, little one, don’t cry. Just squeeze my hand.”

“It’s attacking the mandible and sternum. Move, move!”

“It’s going to be alright.”

“Save what you can!”

“Hold on, Obi-Wan. Listen to the Force.”

The tears on Master Qui-Gon’s face looked strange. He had seen him cry before but never over him. It hurt to move his mouth, hurt even more to speak. Hurt— hurt a lot to speak. He wasn’t sure he was actually saying anything. But he tried because Master Qui-Gon looked devastated and Obi-Wan already had broken his heart by choosing to become a Shadow as soon as his return to the Temple was permanent. “The Force is with—“

Obi-Wan opens his eyes. Makes sure the mask is in place.

The rain still hasn’t ceased its steady downpour. He pulls Mace’s robe tight around himself. His own robe, seldom as he uses it, might have been lost on the battlefield where he had dropped it, but semantics. Mace’s spare robe squelches.

Obi-Wan will never be dry again.

Wings snap back into armored plates as the hyperjets power down, and Obi-Wan takes a bit of pleasure watching Cody land silently despite the mass of the clone armor.

“The siege is going well,” Cody says, tapping one of multiple antenna links on his helmet. Obi-Wan smiles under the mask. Quin and Bant have accused him many a times of having weird preferences, but the professionalism and calm control Cody so casually exudes is very, very attractive. The news makes him even more attractive. “Shouldn’t take longer than three months,” Cody continues, optimism apparent even with the vocoder.

Any kind of attraction spurning on Obi-Wan’s wet, frozen body drowns in the rain rather pityfully. “Three months,” he repeats in tap code where he’s gripping the robe.

The helmet turns to him fully. “Yes. It’s going really well.”

Obi-Wan strengthens his resolve to leech off any warmth Cody possesses when they crawl into bed after their shift.

.

“You can’t ever steal my voice,” Cody repeats in a murmur, fingertip stroking over the words on Obi-Wan’s forearm. He looks up to find blue eyes watching him over the mask. “Is that your sense of humor or your defiance speaking?”

The hand where he started tracing the letters moves back and forth, undecided. A little bit of both, then, Cody guesses.

The hand is retracted, flows so naturally into sign language. “Many tried.”

“Tried to steal your voice?” At Obi-Wan’s nod, Cody shuffles up the bed, re-categorizing the scars he’s seen. “No one was ever successful, I’m guessing.”

“Many broken bones on both sides,” is signed with a careless shrug before Obi-Wan turns serious, determination and the even more familiar defiance spinning Cody close. “I will only ever be silent of my own choosing.”

[eldritch-spouse]

Maaan, it feels like y'all sleepin' on Caius with the lack of questions for him.

What's Caius like when his obsession is on their period?

TW: Period sex

Caius, vampiric leech that he is, knows extremely early on, which is why he's very quick to approach you.

See, this is a wonderful time for you! You should be joyous! Many people of your sex have been blessed with the ability to bleed from their core, which cures their bodies. But unfortunately, if not treated adequately, it will not cure the soul.

You should make the most of this divinely-sanctioned bleeding by allowing him to cleanse you in these moments. No more pain than the one you are already naturally enduring is necessary, you simply must let Caius treat this blood the same way he would the blood you so generously and wisely let flow during other times of the month.

This means that, quite like he does normally, Caius is still supposed to extract that blood out of you. This can be done a myriad of ways, so don't you worry, it's perfectly normal when he inserts two careful fingers into your heat and fingers that mess out of you. Caius breathes hard and drools on your shoulder as he watches the red flow spread across his digits, hearing it drip to the altar ground and the squelch of your greedy cunt trying to trap him.

It's quite alright, Caius doesn't blame you, you cannot control the hormonal state of your body and he will not mock you for such wanton responses. You are pure.

Fingers become his mouth. Caius is reverent and sweet, taking his time to drag out the moment and act as if he's not intentionally pleasuring you with his motions. Being a leech means that the monster can very easily wrap his whole mouth around you and suck quite hard. This, paired with his increasingly incessant motions and continuous stimulation, will make it very difficult for you to not orgasm.

And though you may try to warn Caius, to tell him that perhaps he should stop, the Exsanguinarius will have none of it, and you'll have no choice but to cum right then and there.

Though the shame courses through you from head to toe, the leech simply offers a scarlet smile as he assures you that you've done no wrong, that this happens sometimes.

He presumes you will be visiting him daily for the remainder of your menstruation, yes?

[squishysoftmonsters]

Triggers : Sexual Content/Expansion/[Mature +18 Minors /Ageless DNI]

💚Imagine trying to use the water in your home..but it was green otherworldly slime that had the feeling of man jizz..

Imagine coming home after a hard day of work. You hear squelches,scrambling and chitter sounds,as if little monsters invaded the plumbing of your house.

Usual bathroom time for you was 3am..but your tired eyes focused on a lengthy mass that seemed to be asleep in the sink. Its glow was very faint. You thought it was an alien leech.

Nervously turning on the light,it was several glowing penile eel monsters that screeched awake once the light hit them,trying to scramble out of the sink. They squished and writhed free of your firm hold,slithering back into hiding.

You : Seriously,dildo monsters in my house? This can't be happening to me..

You sighed looking at your impressive collection and dropped your face into your hands while sitting on your bed. The plumber would laugh his ass off with you trying to explain that living dildo monsters are affecting the quality of water. Who could you tell?

Your head did a u turn at a chitter under your bed,a single green eye staring into yours.

You : [softly] Its okay little guy. You can come out. Pun not intended.

A soft mrrrrp noise came from the penile alien creature as it inched toward your hand. The red and white banding throughout with teeth decor supporting it's body reminded of your favorite pour.

You lifted and petted it..Treating it like a little animal,building it a dark place to lay its soft head. Days went by,and you noticed your penis pet began to grow out of the little enclosure,features more and more defined.

You : They grow so fast. [gasps]

More mmrrrp noises came from your pipes,your sink..toilet and shower head. Soon your house was squirming with large penile aliens! Their tender knobs and teeth decor against your face.

You : [gasps] Oh dear...

The penile aliens began to poke where they shouldnt,but you were firm with them. You could'nt sleep with the mmrrp noises,and being covered in their slime,as they turned demanding..fighting to be intimate with you.

Over time they became aggressive and jealous as you spent intimate time with your toys and not them. Their warm,pleasant smelling bodies began to pile and wrap you,screeching and fighting for your holes.

You : [snarls] Bad..BAD.

You yelped as one went in you,stretching your stomach,then your knees buckled and you collapsed.

The mmrrp noises became erratic as they stuffed you. It felt horrible,but it felt good too. Weighted,full and gurgling,you panted and wobbled around your house,feeling them rhythmically pump you from inside.

You : [weak laughter] Eheh..

You fell to the floor,squirming and gasping in orgasm,spurting slime as the alien penile monsters had their way with you. Fat and engorged,you looked like an round egg on the ground,enjoying the pleasurable fullness of being stuffed from inside.

They climbed all over your body,sucking and biting on your body,covering you in hickeys. High from their pleasant smell,you did'nt fight them.

Their mmrrp noises were like music to your ears as you lulled to sleep in utter orgasmic bliss. You kept the penile aliens..and they kept you...

They took over your home..They became your everything...

Finding otherworldly Dick Monsters in your sink? Sign me up! Inspired by this post from the awesome @batbitestoys ! Their pours are gorgeous beyond belief..please show them love!

[get-shiggy-with-it]

*bg3 spoilers ahead*

word count: 1.5k

content: canon typical violence, Astarion x gender neutral!reader

What if you could hug Astarion after he finally kills his master? (set after the option where he does not ascend)

“Why does tragedy exist? Because you are full of rage. Why are you full of rage? Because you are full of grief.”

—

“But I'm not above enjoying this.”

—

The body fell to the ground with a rather disappointing thud—muted and squelching into a heap at his feet. It was, of course, a glorious moment still; Cazador dead by his hand, the light fading from his monstrous eyes. It was just that, well, Astarion had envisioned it would all play out with much more spectacle than the altogether clumsy manner his centuries-long tormentor crumpled lifelessly to the bloodied stone.

There ought to have been more of a flourish, he thought maybe foolishly. Something befitting of the dramatic climax when his freedom was finally secured for good. 

Cazador had loomed so large, seemed so above, reigning over him for centuries—controlling every aspect of his being that he might as well have been a god for all Astarion could refuse him. Ultimately, he had expected him to die like a god as well. Not like a man. 

Astarion had envisioned the hall echoing with the finality of his hollow corpse hitting the floor. Like the satisfying boom of great castle gates slamming shut on that portion of his life forever. This creature who ruled him, boot on his neck for hundreds of years, vanquished at last.

Above all, he expected satisfaction. A flood of it flowing through his cold veins and bringing warmth to his long dead skin. That the elation of it might bring him back from the brink of his undeath, however impossible that may be. 

And he did not get that.

Shocking. 

Instead, Astarion’s knees banged painfully to rest on the ground amidst his bloody handiwork rang out in the chamber. The sound of his bones jarring in his ears. 

The air felt thick and cloying, a dank weight in his lungs that constricted like a snake, leaving a growing tightness in his chest. Astarion sat for a moment—still waiting for the rush of fierce joy that never came. 

Which was strange, he thought distantly. He felt very distant now, somewhere between floating and tethered horribly to the ground, the magnitude of it all crashing down was suffocating. 

It would stand to reason, he had assumed, that at the end of it all—when his freedom had been secured for good—there would be a sort of immediate relief, like cool water to a burn, like the blissful ebbing of pain after a healing spell. Though apparently that did not stand to reason at all as now it seemed more as if he’d thrust the raw wound of himself straight back into the flames. There was no wave of elation as he stared from far away at his hands that still clutched the blade, as tightly as when he dealt the killing blow. 

So Astarion sat — feeling something slip away from him, leech out and stain the floor like the blood of his former master. And in all the empty space left behind, something else began to grow in him. Something which he knew must have always been there lurking under the weight of his rage and waiting to be released.

The tightness in his lungs culminated in the familiar sensation of a stone stock behind his tongue. His mouth filled with coppery spit as he fought through the pain to swallow it back. His throat felt as though it had been torn to shreds, burning as his eyes began to sting and something roared in his ears.

Astarion wondered from a place outside of his body if someone was weeping—the sound of it barely audible over the pounding in his head.

It wasn’t until the strangled reverberation of a sob, wrenched from his gut and leaving him flayed open as Cazador, tore through the chamber walls again that he realized it was he who wept, who wailed shamelessly in anguish. His head fell back — fanged teeth bared in a snarl, face contorted with the ugliness of a grief long since buried in the coffin he’d broken out of years ago. 

The dull constant pulse of vengeance pushing him ever onward after his escape had gone. In its place an awful throbbing ache that bloomed, growing in intensity like a knife to the skin of his back, a twist of the blade for every year he spent in Cazador’s possession. 

He’d done it. 

He’d slayed the beast. 

He’d won his freedom. 

And now he was left with all this pain that had driven him. That he’d clung to desperately so he would not give up. With no place left to put it all down. 

Nothing more to do with it but feel.

Though he took some small pleasure that the creature who had planted this seed laid before him now, just as small and broken as Astarion had been. 

Good, he thought — spat in his head. Another shout bubbled up in his chest, clawed its way past his fangs that scratched the plump flesh of his lower lip, scarred over years of self-inflicted bites. 

His knees ached where the harsh stone bit into them, his head spun as everything blurred around him with the moisture beaded in his eyes. 

Slowly, as if moving through honey, the world began to shift. The cavernous ceiling tilted down, down, down until his eyes were locked on the stone steps that led in from the hall. There was something warm and blessedly solid at his back - covering him where he was bare, enveloping him slowly into its sturdy, gentle embrace. Bringing him back to his body.

For a brief moment he thought maybe it was him that died. Maybe this was Death come to ferry him away. Wherever it was things like him went. 

But he didn’t think death smelled so sweet or so familiar. The rich smoke of campfires permanently woven into soft linen and leather, the light notes of lye soap underneath the metal tang of well-worn armor.  

Nor would Death have held him so kindly, cradled in a circle of strong arms. 

You were knelt behind him in the bloody mess, pulling him to rest against your chest with a light hand guiding his head to your shoulder. It was a balm - your touch -  a soft heat to the aching muscle of him.  Behind you, Astarion could just make out the blurry outline of his companions and the soft shapes of the other spawn, drifting back down to the stone dias. 

He couldn’t muster the energy to feel even a bit embarrassed by the way he turned in your grasp, the blade clattering forgotten to the floor as his nails scratched at your back, pulling you in closer, trying to crawl under your skin. 

“I’ve got you,” your voice came out in a hush. It seemed to him you were saying it more to yourself, an assurance of sorts. But he took solace in the words regardless.

How long had it been since he’d craved this—the touch of another? Since that time he could no longer recall, since touch had been a comfort, since his body had been his own. 

And now he longed to be fully engulfed, hidden away from the sting of the world, nestled safely between your ribs. As you muttered to him, he pressed his face to your neck which became increasingly wet with something that ran thinner and saltier than the sweet rushing of blood in your veins. 

Astarion thought he might have said your name — a whisper as the flood inside him began to ebb to nothing more than a trickle.  That you might have shushed him, petted his head like a dear thing. Brushed the tangled, silvery curls from his eyes and held him closer still. 

“You’re safe now,” he heard through the ringing in his ears. 

And Astarion—creature of the night, hungry beast, quick to bite and slow to trust—had never believed anything more in his life. 

“It’s over,” he said. 

And it was only partly true, but there was triumph in that still. 

This, at least, was over and you were still there at the end of it all. He found the relief of that simple fact so staggering that he could do nothing to resist your gravity pulling him in.

A drifting, icy comet caught in the orbit of your celestially warm chest.

“Well done, I think you got him.”

And despite himself, Astarion laughed. More of a hoarse coughing, really, than anything else. You were chuckleing too, your shoulder bouncing under his cheek and there was the miraculous feeling of lips pressed briefly to the crown of his head. 

“I should hope so,” he replied after a moment, reluctantly—though he would never admit it—allowing himself to be detangled from you and pulled to his feet. 

He tried to think of some sharp-tongued quip to diffuse the tension in the air but nothing came. Your eyes were red rimmed when he met them, looking up at him with something that might have been pride. 

And then the words came easily.  

“Always so full of surprises, aren’t you?”

[bitter69uk]

Hagsploitation truly is the horror sub-genre that keeps on giving. Sparked by the unexpected success of 1962’s What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? in the 1960s and 70s, maturing female stars of golden age Hollywood extended their careers by swallowing their pride, embracing their inner scream queen and plunging into exploitation shockers: think of Joan Crawford, Bette Davis, Tallulah Bankhead, Olivia de Havilland, Agnes Moorehead and Shelley Winters starring in the likes of Strait-Jacket, Hush … Hush … Sweet Charlotte, Berserk, Lady in a Cage, Die Die My Darling, Dear Dead Delilah and especially the “question movies” Whoever Slew Auntie Roo?, What’s the Matter with Helen? and What Ever Happened to Aunt Alice? Roaring back from career doldrums (I last remember her playing Miley Cyrus’ mother), 61-year-old Demi Moore finds herself in a similar position in director Coralie Fargeat’s grisly and stylish satire The Substance. In a gutsy, exposed (in every sense) performance, Moore plays Elisabeth Sparkle, a middle-aged television celebrity abruptly fired by ageist and sexist network executive Dennis Quaid (really chomping the scenery). Despondent, Elisabeth takes desperate measures to rejuvenate her “best self” with a mysterious unregulated black market scientific procedure called The Substance … and things swiftly unravel. Characterized by stunning art direction and a visceral sound design that emphasizes every repulsive squelching noise, The Substance ratchets up maximum dread and offers a goldmine of knowing movie references: Basket Case. Carrie. Death Becomes Her. Every single David Cronenberg “body horror” flick but particularly The Fly. Thematically, it reminded me of two specific b-movies from the late 1950s: The Wasp Woman and The Leech Woman, in which the anti-heroine experiments with science (or voodoo) to restore youth and beauty with monstrous consequences (and – it must be noted - these films make their point with a fraction of The Substance’s budget and two hour-and 40-minute running time). The Substance is bound to be divisive. There was multiple “walk outs” when I saw it. And has Fargeat lost control of the material by the ultra-gory splatter fest finale? However you cut it, it’s a wild ride and destined for cult status.

[skyward-floored]

Whumptober Day 10: Passing out from pain

I’m soooooo glad I had this prewritten guys you have no idea. Who’s ready for a Hyrule blood curse fic? 😈

Warnings: blood and severe injury, brief body horror, uncertain fate of a character

Ao3 link

Continuation (day 18)

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The blade sinks through his chest, and with it, seals Hyrule’s doom.

He can’t even scream anymore, his voice raw from threats and defiance and previous cries already torn from his throat. Ropes keep him from moving anything except for his head, and even if they weren’t, he’s so exhausted from the lack of nourishment and every last-ditch escape effort he’s made in the past couple days that he couldn’t move even if he wanted to.

So when the blade rips through him, right below his ribs, all that comes out of Hyrule’s throat is a breathy whimper.

It changes to a keening whine when the sword is twisted in his gut, the sound thick with agony. Blood gushes when the sword is pulled back out, and Hyrule lets out a weak cry, watching through blurry vision as his skin turns red with it.

Blood pools below him in a slight indentation in the stone, the rock cut precisely for this moment. It trails down the side, and Hyrule forces himself to watch as it lands in a large bowl with a pile of ashes, which immediately begin to smoke.

An angry sob tears from his throat as more of his blood spills, howls of victory and glee a cacophony in his ears. He fought tooth and nail against this ever happening, yet here he is, like a lamb at the slaughter, his blood spilled and Ganon’s return imminent.

And nobody comes to help him.

Hyrule closes his eyes then, shaking in pain and grief. He’d fallen through a portal alone, right into a near army of monsters in his homeland. Caught off-guard and dizzy from dark magic, he’d given the fight everything he had, but it hadn’t been enough. He’d been hit over the head and dragged away, and despite his endless attempts at freedom, nothing had worked.

The others had never shown up.

Goddesses if nothing else, send them to fix my mess, Hyrule pleads as he hears an unearthly squelch come from the ashes, and the monsters roar in excitement. Even if I have to die, help them stop him, don’t let my land be destroyed because of me.

A hissing sound is coming from the ashes now, dark magic coalescing and feeding off of Hyrule’s blood. It’s like ice in his veins, sharp and deadly cold, and Hyrule sobs again, giving a weak thrash against his bonds.

He can’t let them win. He can’t.

He can’t.

The dark magic is leeching off of him like a parasite now, feeding off of his blood and magic, stealing his energy and very lifeblood to use for its own purposes. The chanting around him speeds, excitement thrumming in the air. Hyrule hears something move beside him, drag itself through the ashes, and if he’d eaten anything in the past few days, it would be coming up now.

“More,” a voice rasps, phlegmy and horrific, and more tears born of pain roll down Hyrule’s cheeks as the blade sinks through him in a different part of his chest. He chokes, and it’s pulled out and slashed at his sides and arms as well. By then the pain is blocking out so much of his world that Hyrule doesn’t realize it at first when the blade is dragged from his shoulder straight down to the opposite hip.

He would scream, but what energy he had is being siphoned away from him, and all he can do is shudder with a cough that tastes like blood. His whole body feels soaked with it, and an almost hilarious thought drifts through his mind that it’s a good thing the monsters stripped him of everything but his shorts, otherwise he’d be washing bloodstains out for months.

As if I’ll live that long.

He convulses with another wracking cough, and blood spatters up with it, pain dulling so much of his world. For some reason the only clear sense he has left is his hearing, and his ears are filled with his own agonized breaths, chants and cheers of monsters, the gut-churning sounds of bones popping together and skin forming over flesh beside him.

He’s shocked he isn’t dead yet, but the dark magic probably has a hand in that. It’s siphoning even more greedily now, and Hyrule feels it increase and increase and increase until all he can do is shake and gasp from the pain it leaves him with.

It abruptly triples and rips a broken scream from his throat (apparently he is still capable of such noises), making his back arch and vision go red with agony. It only lasts a few moments, but they’re like a lifetime.

When it eases and Hyrule finally falls still, all he can do is drag in a trembling, wretched hiccup.

And then the laughter starts.

It begins at first weak and croaking, as if it has to remember how to make such a sound. But as the minutes tick by, it grows louder, and deeper, and so familiar that Hyrule nearly wails with the weight of his failure.

He’s back.

Oh gods he’s back.

Hyrule keeps his eyes closed as the laughter continues, his body finally gone limp. It’s the one comfort he has left, and the darkness behind his eyelids is getting deeper at the edges, the kind Hyrule only ever sees when things are really bad. But the moment he begins to drift into its edges, the stabbing ice of dark magic drags him back, wracking him with another bubbling cough.

Footsteps trail closer to him, different then that of the monsters who’ve been prowling around the stone. Fingers—claws abruptly grab his chin, tilting his face around, and Hyrule feels blood drip down his face.

“I know you live, Hero. Look at me.”

The voice is familiar and not, booming and smooth, yet holding an inhuman growl, one that makes Hyrule involuntarily shudder.

The claws grip tighter when he doesn’t obey, breaking skin. Despite how Hyrule doesn’t want to do anything that voice tells him, let his final act be one of defiance, his curiosity of what his failure has done gets the better of him.

He drags opens his eyes, and sees a monster.

Ganon isn’t a beast like when Hyrule fought him— but neither is he entirely a man. He’s some sort of mix of the two, claws rather than fingers, hooves instead of feet. His hair is more of a mane than anything, and where there isn’t fur, his skin has a blueish tone to it, one Hyrule wishes he didn’t remember so well.

Ganon’s face is largely human, though the features aren’t quite right, a snout-like nose, sharp teeth... especially the red eyes, shot through with a terrifyingly intelligent yellow. Those eyes study Hyrule in silence, the laughter subsided.

He tilts Hyrule’s head side to side, and Ganon leans so close to him that Hyrule can see the flecks of black in his eyes.

“This is the child who slew me?” he growls, digging his claws even tighter into Hyrule’s jaw. Hyrule can’t control the way his breath hitches in pain, and a smirk pulls at Ganon’s mouth, revealing fangs so large they’re almost tusks. “Pathetic.”

Ganon abruptly drops his chin, scoring marks along his cheek, and Hyrule can only watch as he studies the crimson on his hands, leaning forward to sniff it. A grin pulls at his lips, and he suddenly drags a clawed hand across Hyrule’s chest, coating his palm in blood as Hyrule chokes back another whimper of pain.

Ganon raises it up for the crowd of monsters to see, fingers dripping with red.

Then presses it to his bare chest, and the monsters roar at the handprint of blood left there when he removes it.

Ganon raises his hand to his mouth then, his tongue flicking out as he licks the remaining blood off his claws, and Hyrule chokes back bile. The monsters around them continue to roar, watching as their master licks their enemy’s blood from his hand, but they fall silent as he finishes, and raises a fist.

“Hyrule will be ours!” he roars, and the monsters roar with him, blin and poe, wizzrobe and daira, all ecstatic at the return of their master.

Ganon probably gives more of a speech of some kind then, one that whips the monsters into a near frenzy, but Hyrule doesn’t hear any of it, lost in his failure and brokenness. Blood still drips from his wrecked chest, sticky and hot against his freezing skin. His whole body is pain, his world is that of darkness and blood, and he doesn’t know why he isn’t dead yet.

Am I not even granted that release?

Something wet falls down his cheek, and Hyrule doesn’t know whether it’s blood or tears.

Just breathing is agony in its purest form, and Hyrule’s wet rasps grow weaker with every gurgling exhale. Claws grip at his chin again after a bit, pressing until his eyes open, and Hyrule sees Ganon leering at him mere inches from his face.

“Not yet, little hero,” Ganon growls, victory glinting in his eyes. “As much as I’d like to watch you drown in your own blood, I have use of you yet.”

Hyrule glares through the pain and his tears, rage at the beast in front of him granting him just a bit of energy. “G... g-go to... hhh—”

His chest convulses and blood spurts from his mouth in a weak cough again, making Ganon laugh.

He abruptly slams a clawed hand down on Hyrule’s middle, and his world explodes into white and red, swirling with stars that bleed almost as much as he is.

If he screams, he doesn’t hear it.

He can’t breathe, not through the pressure and pain in his middle, his throat full of liquid he’s too weak to expel. Hyrule gags and writhes, tears slipping down his nose, all while Ganon watches with a delighted smirk.

“Bring him,” he hears faintly, and Hyrule wants to do everything he can to stop that voice. He wants to scream and fight and protect his world from the monster he’s created, steal a sword and drive it through Ganon’s chest before he can do anything else, but he’s too drained. Too powerless.

Too weak.

All he can do is sob one last desperate prayer that his brothers will do what he couldn’t, and then his vision spirals from red to black.

[eggedbellies]

This is one of my dealer's choice commissions! Thank you anonymous, this was fun!!

Title: Midnight Search Wordcount: 1848 Kinks: tentacles, eggs / oviposition, suspension Synopsis: Jackson is a cleric with a job to do; get some flowers for a healing potion. Of course, they only bloom at night - and it seems something moved into the bog whilst he was away...

“Now ain’t this a damn fine idea?” Jackson heaved a great sigh from the very bottom of his chest, striding across the slightly boggy ground, deeper into the darkness. His bleeding heart had, once again, driven the cleric off in search of an unusual herb. There was no doubt that this stubborn curse required a very specific potion and, like the fool he was, he’d not ordered in any of the dried and powdered one for quite some time. No doubt a result of the particularly muggy summer, cracking open his reserve had revealed rather a fragrance of rot. Just wonderful. So now, here he was, letting his good boots get soaked with muddy water, heading off to find a flower as night truly fell.

“S’better fresh, at least,” he mused, wondering if he should’ve dragged on armour over the standard robes he’d taken to wearing. But getting a ponytail into a helmet was a nightmare, and whilst the bog was not the most pleasant place to take a trek, well, monsters were few and far between out here. Sure, he’d fallen off of the adventuring life and settled, it seemed; let himself soften down a bit, get a bit of a belly. But that was the nice thing about living out here, just being a local cleric, taking care of his community. Jackson was proud of what he did, dangit, and he wasn’t going to let a little thing like having to venture out to get ingredients stop him from making a cure.

The light was fading rapidly, but that wasn’t a bad thing – this particular bloom only opened it’s petals at night, but it was easiest to spot in the twilight. His boots squelched, the sucking water-mud mixture drawing his legs down with increasing power. Last time he’d been along here, he didn’t remember the bog being quite so deep… the edge of his robe was soaking quickly, unpleasantly sticking to his legs. Eugh. Gross. Murmuring a low incantation, sunlight glowed softly from his hand, casting the twisted trees around him, creating distorted shadows that he stoicly ignored.

Driving onwards, the trees got thicker and thicker, and still there was no sight of the soft pink glow of the flower that he needed. Damnit. There had to be something – this was definitely where he’d found them wild before. Casting his eyes up into the canopy, searching for any hanging by slender vine, he missed the roots that were rising just above the surface of the water – and with a yelp, his foot caught in it, casting him straight down into the pool with a loud splash. A moment later, cursing loud enough that a few birds took flight, he managed to drag himself onto a higher patch of ground, shaking water roughly off his robes. But it was too late. Soaked to the skin, Jackson reached up to squeeze his ponytail, grimacing. The light had flickered out, his concentration lost in the fall.

“Damnit to all Gods and Hells,” he muttered. This might be a lost cause. And now there was something wet and cold on his leg, probably a leech, which, ew. His hands began to reach down, searching for the offending insect, just as it occurred to him that whatever it was – it was far too big to be a normal leech. Eyes starting to adjust more to the dark, they caught the sight of something thick, shiny, rising out of the water, winding up his ankle – and then everything was cold and wet, liquid rushing up his nostrils as the cleric squirmed and fought, unable to cast a spell as he was yanked unceremoniously through the water. Just as he accepted that consciousness was about the fade and death might be around the corner, he was thrust into open air.

Gasping raggedly, he scrabbled hard, hands gripping at rock, mud, trying to pull away from whatever the hell was still wrapped around his leg. Twisting around, he aimed a kick, but succeeded in nothing more than entirely losing his boot. In here, there was a soft glow – from where he had no idea, but it suffused the small cave in an eerie pink light – and the air was unexpectedly warm, even if it was still damp. There, rising out of the water in front of him, a mass of lumbering tentacles. No beast he recognised, or had ever seen before - “What in the Gods-damned hells,” he gasped, coughing and spluttering, “are you?!” aiming another kick, even if it was bare foot, he wasn’t sure what was going to happen here. He didn’t know many violent spells, a healer by trade, but as he tried to summon up a simple ‘ignis’, it was too late.

They were everywhere. Soaking and slimy, and yet unbelievably strong, binding his wrists, jolting him up towards the ceiling. The ragged gasp was choked off, body covered in a writhing mass in what felt like a split second; one forcing it’s way into his mouth, coated in sweet water as well as something intensely earthy and natural. The sensation of his clothes being torn away was barely perceptible, all he could feel was every inch of those strong tentacles sliding over his body. Thick, pressing in to every part of his body, rubbing between his legs, spreading his cheeks, cupping his balls, stroking along the length of his cock… around his torso, over his thighs, and arms, and neck, not an inch of him was being left untouched. Struggling to gasp in air past the one that was wriggling into his throat, unable to get out a single word, more focused on just breathing, Jackson let himself relax.

There was no way out of this. And seeing as his cock was getting harder and harder, body tingling all over, he might as well enjoy it, right? Actually, the tingling was getting more intense by the moment, fogging everything over with a veneer of pleasure – whatever this damn thing was, it must have some kind of aphrodisiac in it’s slime – he had to get out of here – but as the goo oozed into his mouth, he was sucking on it like it was the sweetest nectar he had ever tasted. He couldn’t seem to stop, by the gods, it felt so good – something wrapping around his cock, now. It was drawing it down into something cool and so very, very wet – and all that thought went out of the window as the first tentacle began to push it’s way into his pucker.

“Oh, fuck -” he groaned, although it came out more like a garbled “hfh” because of the tentacle oozing down his throat. The tentacles were spreading his legs further, as if to gain more access, inch by inch of surprisingly thick tendril working it’s way into his orifice. His cock twitched, rock hard as the petals wrapped around it began to pulse and tug. He cried out again, trying urgently to roll his hips into it, needing more, more – but the tentacles were holding him tighter, forcing his trembling body to stay entirely still as tears rolled down his cheeks – not pain, but bliss, his body entirely accepting it’s invader. And still it sunk inexorably deeper – before releasing a spurt of cool fluid that made his whole body shudder as one, burning so hot that the coldness of the tendrils felt like a blessing.

It seemed happy with the depth it had achieved, now, starting to thrust. And oh, Jackson had never felt so much like a toy – it was using him, fucking him, like he was nothing more than a hole. It felt so good – his brain was lost in the fizz of aphrodisiac goo and the deep pleasure of being fucked hard. His cock twitched again, then again – and he came hard, right as the tentacle struck deep again. Every drop was drunk down, but he didn’t seem to go flaccid; whatever the hell this thing was doing to him, it seemed like it was going to drain him dry. The thought sent a cold thrill through his spine, legs twitching erratically. Fuck, hell, damns and gods, he never wanted it to let him go. The thrusts were rough, bouncing him despite the way he was being held. His body was relaxing, allowing him to stretch, taking a thickness he never imagined. Eyes rolling back, everything became just a wash of warm light and being used…

And then, suddenly, it froze. Totally still. Whining, Jackson tried to wriggle, to grind, but it wasn’t moving. Just as his eyes were starting to open, wondering if it was about to digest him, something began to press hard against his pucker. It was thicker than even the tentacle, bulging it out, but there was no doubting it was going to come in. It pressed inexorably, millimetre by millimetre, and then – with a faint pop – the egg entered him. Shuddering violently as he released a pittance into the tube around his cock, Jackson went utterly limp – not that it made a damned difference to the grip around him. But there was nothing to do. Slowly, it rolled up inside him, shockwaves of pleasure before it popped loose and settled deep inside him.

Then there was another. And another. Before long, a whole parade of round eggs were squeezing into his body. Jackson shuddered. The tendrils started to loosen their grip, just enough to allow for his rounding belly. A rough gasp escaped past the drooling tendril in his mouth, struggling to get enough air before let alone now that it felt like his very lungs were being compressed. Pop, press, release, swell – he rocked in the grip as best he could, starting to feel like a balloon, the tentacle sliding in deeper with his sheer weight. As the last egg popped inside, Jackson shuddered through a completely dry orgasm.

And then the tentacle began to loosen. He was being lowered. The grip around his body began to drop – thinking that he was falling, his arms flailed, grabbing at anything – and then he was being pulled again, dragged through water. Enough forsight this time to inhale first. The rush, now somewhat reduced by the size of his over-swollen belly – his sore hole, twitching spasmodically – the feeling of the water pressing on him – he almost came again just from being rushed back to where he was found. Dumped unceremoniously on the stream, he panted in air, crawling just a few steps away before his legs spread. Overstretched as he was, it took only a few strokes of his overly tender cock before all the eggs were rushing out, splashing back down into their pool. When he could think again, rubbing his tender belly with one hand, Jackson looked up at the starry night he could see through the gaps in the trees.

Then, languidly, he lifted up his other hand, still clutching whatever it was he’d grabbed from the ceiling of the cave. The soft pink glow of the flowers stared back at him.

“Oh, you’re fucking kidding me --”

[millersdjarin]

Some Invisible String

Chapter I: High Tide

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Rating: E (eventually)

Summary: Ten years after Reader left Joel for reasons he still doesn't know, they find themselves together again in a town called Jackson. Joel has questions he's too afraid to ask; and Reader dreads having to give the answers.

Tags/Warnings: eventual smut, post tlou part I, jackson era joel <3, emotion!!!

Chapter length: 3.3k

notes: my first multi-chapter joel fic! overall title is from taylor swift's "invisible string", chapter I title also from taylor, "this love" ♥︎ eventual smut will be here too! so far it's going to be 5 chapters :) enjoy! ps. i recently switched to writing in second person but when i wrote this fic i was still writing in first person, hope u don't mind! will be posting updates regularly

I don’t know why I thought this was a good idea. Really, I don’t. 

But, then again, nothing has been a good idea in twenty years, and I’m still here. So, there’s that. 

One minute I was out hunting in the snow, tracking a deer that made itself vulnerable in the woods beside a half-frozen creek. If I could get him, I thought, it’d keep me going with food for a week at least. Best thing about winter: food stays fresh in the cold. 

Worst thing: everything else. Literally everything else. 

Because now, what started as a quick hunt with an almost-guaranteed prize at the end, has ended in me literally fighting for my fucking life, rolling around in foot-deep snow as runners try to rip the shit out of me. 

It doesn’t help that the commotion has led a bunch of local hunters—who clearly had the same idea as me—to my location. They’ve got the deer, they’ve shot me in the leg, and I’m either going to bleed out, get bitten, or get eaten by infected. 

So, this is great. 

Blood rushing in my ears, I seize the moment a hunter shoots one of the nearby runners and use it to take shelter behind a rock for a minute, surrounded by the groans and screams of infected who are still searching for me or attacking the hunters. Gunshots ring loud throughout the air, along with the smashing of a few molotovs as the bottles hit the snow, the roaring of flames as they engulf bodies. 

My leg is bleeding into the snow. Actually, it’s damn near gushing, pulsing out with each beat of my heart. 

Footsteps are getting closer to me. I try to put pressure on the wound, but the bullet is still there, and it fucking hurts, and my vision is going blurry. The screams of infected are getting less and less as, presumably, the men take them out. 

I’m not bitten. Not yet. But that’s the least of my worries, if the pool of red snow I’m creating below me is anything to go by. 

It’s starting to leech into the snow surrounding the rock, easily giving away my location. As the last infected screams with a squelch of a blade into one of its body parts, one of the men shouts, “Hey! She’s over there! Flank her!” 

Ha. As if they even need to flank me. 

My head is spinning. Blood, shiny and thick, coats my hands. It’s all over me. It’s fucking everywhere. It won’t stop bleeding. 

I’m going to fucking die. 

These men are going to kill me, or do worse while they wait for me to die. Surviving the apocalypse as a woman is a fucking joke. 

I reach for my gun, but there are spots in my vision now. Dark red and black. It’s a mixture of real blood in my eyes and blood loss making me dizzy. I can feel it fading. All of it. The cold, the feeling in my body, the sound around me, everything…

It’s fading. 

There are heavy, men’s footsteps getting closer. 

I’m just debating whether I have the strength to fight back, or even to just end it all myself before they get chance, when I hear it. 

A new gun. A new set of voices. The hunters’ attention is turned away from me once more as their footsteps crunching in the snow turn away and head for whoever else has decided to grace us with their presence. 

It doesn’t matter. I’m out anyway. After all this time, all this fighting, after everything I’ve lost—I’m going to die here in the snow, in the middle of nowhere in Jackson County, after being shot by a fucking hunter. 

Then, I hear a voice. 

It could be a southern accent. I could swear that it is - that it’s real.

But I always knew that in my last moments I’d hear him, real or not. It’s been ten years, but I still hear him in the night sometimes, as I’m falling asleep or jolting awake. Sometimes when I get injured, I hear him tutting, I feel his fingers on my skin, patching me up. 

Now, sitting here dying in the snow, I could swear that it’s him.

It’s not. It can’t be. 

But as the last of my consciousness fades, as I feel the final thread of me begin to fray, I let myself believe that it is. 

I hold onto the sound. So clear, like he’s right there next to me. 

I never wanted to die alone. I’m going to pretend that I won’t. 

“Joel…” I feel his name slip through my lips for the first time in years. 

His name, and his voice saying my name in return, are the last things I hear before I go. 

-

Well, goddamn. 

If this is hell, there is no fire, so it could be worse; but if it’s heaven, Jesus, I don’t want it.

I can’t even wake up. My eyes feel heavy. It’s like I’m clawing back to consciousness after a bad fever. After a surgery that went wrong. Before I can even think or begin to open my eyes or listen for sounds, I can feel that every inch of me hurts. Like I’ve been cut open, rearranged, and sewn back together again. 

So, it’s not heaven. Cool. Fine. I’m going to suffer for eternity, then? 

Except, when I hear it, I freeze. (Metaphorically speaking. I’m already frozen in whatever spot I’ve been cursed to.) 

“She’s waking up.” That isn’t Joel. But it’s similar, and familiar. It sounds like...

Why the hell is Tommy here?

Then, it’s his voice again. My name, in Joel’s voice. 

If nothing else, the confusion gets me to force my eyes open. 

And the first thing I see is him. 

“Hey,” Joel says, “can you hear me? Wake up…you’re safe…” 

I blink a few times. Then, beneath the pain in my body, I realise that I’m warm. I’m under something soft and cosy; a wool blanket, it feels like, if the scratching against my bare arms is anything to go by. 

Any other sensation doesn’t really matter right now, though, because I can’t take my eyes off of Joel. He’s just there, hovering above me with even more creases on his forehead than I remember, an especially big one sitting between his eyebrows right now that looks like someone’s drawn it there. 

“You’re alright, you’re alright,” he sounds distant but close all at once, and soft and gruff just like he used to. 

“I…” I manage to stammer while I vaguely register that there is daylight around us, though it’s fading into shades of amber and pink. Approaching sunset. Last I remember, it had only just risen.

Not without struggle, I get my body to move, but the second I shift in my place, a blinding pain shoots from my leg to all angles, hitting my head and my toes. 

Well. I’m starting to think I’m not actually dead. 

“Hey, don’t try to move, you’re hurt,” Joel says again. 

Joel. 

...Joel? 

Joel!? 

“J—Joel?” As I start to realise that it seems I am very much alive, somehow that fact just makes for more confusion. I look around, and Tommy is there, too, standing by the room’s window, leaning on the butt of his rifle where it sits at his chest, the barrel facing the floor. He looks older, too. Much older. He’s got almost as many wrinkles and greys as Joel does now. 

Someone else enters the picture after a minute. A woman with a frown of concern pushes Joel away—in my delirium I almost forget that he’s probably real, and that it wouldn’t be appropriate to reach out and pull him back—and then her face is above mine, shining a torch in my eyes. 

I squint against it but she holds my eyes open and inspects them. “How are you feeling?” She asks. Her voice is husky but kind, the faintest trace of a Brooklyn accent making itself known. 

“I—confused,” is all I can say, dumbly. Joel is standing behind her, looking over her shoulder with a frown that reaches new depths. (He frowned a lot back in the day, but geez, he’s got even better at it.) “Where am I? Who—who are you?” 

“I’m Angela,” she answers, removing the blinding torch from my eyes, instead pressing two firm fingers into the pulse point on my wrist. “You’re in a town called Jackson. It seems you already know these two fellas.” 

“I—yeah,” I manage to laugh a little in disbelief. Tommy is still there on the opposite side of the room, smiling just a little, fond and nostalgic. It’s then that Angela’s words hit me. A town? “I…is this…am I…the hunters…you…?” My words aren’t coherent or related enough to count as a sentence, or even a completed question. 

“It’s our town,” Tommy says with a small smile. “You got nothin’ to worry about. No one here’s a hunter, and you’re in good hands.” He nods to Angela. 

I look back to her and frown at the way she’s wrapping a blood pressure cuff around my arm. “Are you…a doctor?” 

“I am,” she answers. “You got shot. Lost a lot of blood. These two found you just outside town with barely enough time—or blood—to spare.” 

I can’t stop glancing between Angela, Joel, and Tommy. It’s like I’m watching a tennis match between three people. 

I’m still not entirely sure this is real. In a fever dream, or even in my last moments, my brain would definitely conjure up something like this. A safe town, where I’m under a warm blanket, on a soft bed, and being looked after by two people who used to be the most important people in my life. 

“I…” I’m interrupted by the door swinging open. It lets in a brief shock of cold wind, but Joel quickly reaches out to close it behind whoever has just come in. 

“Ellie, I told you to wait outside,” Joel says lowly, so quiet I can barely hear him. 

“It’s freezing out there! And I’m worried. Is she awake—?” The girl—Ellie, apparently—pushes past Joel to look over Angela’s shoulder at me. Her concerned frown relaxes when she sees me. She’s just a kid; probably barely fifteen. I’ve never seen her before, but she’s looking at me like she was terrified I was going to die. “Oh, you’re awake!” 

“I…am.…”

Joel puts his hand on Ellie’s shoulder and gently pulls her back a little. “Give her some space. Angela’s still working.” 

“You know, she’s the best. Last month Joel dislocated his shoulder and she reset it before he could even scream—”

“Alright,” Joel interrupts her, “Ellie. Why don’t you get our guest some food, alright?” 

“Something hot,” Angela requests. 

A hot meal and a comfortable bed. This has to be some kind of pre-death dream.

“It’s almost dinner time at the kitchen,” Tommy offers with a knowing smile, “see what you can rustle up.” 

Ellie sighs, but nods. Before turning to leave, she looks at me again and says, “I’m glad you’re okay. I’ll get you the good stuff.” 

The door lets in another whoosh of cold air, but Joel closes it as soon as possible. It’s then that I realise there’s a fireplace on the wall behind the bed; the flames crackle in the light breeze before settling down again. 

“I need to check your wound,” Angela says. “Don’t suppose one of you boys can help me out? I need someone to distract her.” 

“Distract me? From what?” 

“I’m gonna take off your bandage and check the stitches. Then I’m gonna clean it. It’s going to hurt.” 

“I don’t need distracting,” I say, meaning it. I’ve dealt with worse. Hell, somehow I survived this. But Joel is still gazing at me, his eyes roaming over me from head to toe, like he’s scanning for even the slightest inkling that something else is wrong they haven’t noticed yet. (Seems unlikely—I’m wearing different clothes than I was before.)

Mentally squirming under his gaze for the first time in a long time, when I never thought I would again, I realise that I might not need distracting, but I do need answers. 

Or something close to it. 

“I’ll stay,” Joel offers, as if reading my mind. He was always so good at that. It’s weird. Someone so emotionally unavailable shouldn’t be good at that. 

Tommy pushes off from the wall, stopping at the foot of my bed. “Don’t be afraid to break his hand,” he offers, grinning lopsidedly, “man needs an excuse to stop for one goddamn minute.” He grins at Joel when he grumbles in response. “I’ll be outside. Need anythin’, give me a holler.” And with that, he’s out the door. 

Angela carefully pulls the blanket up and away from my leg, revealing the side of my thigh where the bullet went in. It hurts for something to even be moving in close proximity to it, like my skin is on red alert. 

I wish I could say I’ve gotten good at hiding my pain, after all these years of surviving it; but I haven’t. It still shows on my face like it did the day the outbreak happened; like it did when I was barely an adult.

Joel knows. He pulls up a wooden chair beside my bed, offers up his scarred, calloused hand. There’s an expression on his face I can’t quite read. The faintest hints of a sheepish smile, maybe, crows feet deepening around his eyes. It looks like he’s saying, Funny seein’ you here, and I can hear that in his voice, gruff and sarcastic, so I just imagine that that’s what he’s trying to say. 

I glance down at his hand, then back up. For a moment I consider not taking it. 

It’s been ten years. 

I left for a reason. 

But then Angela starts pulling at the bandage wrapped tight around my leg, and the pain is fucking horrific. It’s a stabbing, a pulling, and an aching all at once. It starts at the bullet wound and pulses out like cracks of lightning, through my bones, my nerves, up my hips and to my neck. 

A sharp inhale through my teeth, a blinding flash of pain that whites out my vision for a second, and I’m reaching for Joel’s hand before I can even think any more about it.

“Why don’t you tell me what the hell you’re doin’ here?” Joel’s voice comes through the blood rushing through my ears. “Last I saw you, we were in Texas.”

“What—what am I doing here?” I laugh, incredulous, and gasp as another wave of pain comes. “I don’t even—know—where I am.” Angela is working away and it hurts, it fucking hurts. But I think, at least, this is the final piece of proof I needed to confirm that I am not actually dead.

That, and the way Joel’s thumb is smoothing over the top of my hand, even though I’m squeezing his so hard that it must hurt like fuck. He’s doing it like he’s not even thinking about it. Like it’s second nature. 

I left for a reason. 

“You’re in Jackson,” he says. 

“I know that. I just—don’t—” I grunt in between words as Angela takes alcohol to the wound. “I don’t know how far—how far you took me—”

“You were barely outside the town. The hunters that got you were bandits on their way to us."

"Right," I say, still not really understanding.

"So it’s just coincidence we found ourselves together again?” 

Yes! I left for a fucking reason! 

I’m realising I’m not saying it out loud. 

I’m not saying it out loud because I never even told Joel there was a reason, let alone what that reason actually was. 

“I—guess so,” I grit out. “Sometimes the Universe likes to laugh at us. I—oh, Jesus!” A particularly intense stab of pain comes as Angela starts dabbing at the wound. It’s a bruise, a gash, a cut, all at once. 

“It’s alright, hey, just look at me,” Joel’s voice comes, so familiar that it hurts, so soft that it hurts—“Look right at me. That’s it. Do you remember where you were when this happened?” 

“I—in the snow,” I answer, staring into his eyes like they’re a lifeline. Angela has started wrapping a new bandage around it now, tight and secure. It hurts. It just fucking hurts. Everything fucking hurts. “The forest. I was—hunting for food. Then…infected. Infected came and—then—hunters…” 

Joel nods, encouraging me to continue. 

I can’t, though. The pain is too much. Looking at him is too much. 

I screw my eyes shut, and a traitorous, humiliating tear spills from one of them. In frustration, a groan splits past my lips, and I reach up my other hand to wipe away the tear. 

“Nearly done,” Angela promises.

My teeth are biting down on my lip so hard that I can taste blood; but the pain of that is paling in comparison to everything else, so it doesn’t bother me. 

“God fucking dammit,” I grunt as another tear falls. 

Down to my very core, it is humiliating. 

To be here, writhing in pain, and crying in front of Joel, of all people. Crying during the apocalypse. Crying because he’s there. Because his eyes are still the same.

I’ve always been too soft. I was never as hard as Joel. Or as anyone else around me. 

As a kid, books always said that being soft was a strength in its own way. That it was a quality to be proud of. But in this world, all it’s ever brought me is close to death.

“All done,” Angela says. 

Though the pain is still very much alive and well, I breathe out a sigh of relief, waiting eagerly for it to ebb. Realising I’m still holding onto Joel’s hand so tight that my knuckles have gone white, I release him, and take a deep breath. 

“Good job,” he says. Whether he’s saying it to me or Angela, I’m not sure. He observes his hand, lifting it up to look at as he stretches his fingers out. “Jesus, woman. Gonna need a new hand after that.” 

I laugh, breathy. “I had permission.” 

“From Tommy,” Joel counters with a grumble. 

“I knew you wouldn’t mind.” I say it before I can give it permission. And the softness in my voice—well. That’s just downright not fair. 

Joel’s eyes meet mine again. He holds them there for a moment too long. Looks like he might want to say something, but then doesn’t, and stands up. His green flannel shirt stretches so nicely over his shoulders, even broader now than they were back then. His hair is flecked with grey, as is his beard, which is longer now. 

I used to lie awake at night and imagine running my fingers over it. I used to cherish the way my hands fit over his shoulders when he boosted me up onto a ledge. The way the muscles in his arms flexed and showed veins when I hoisted him up behind me. 

We used to be a team, me, him, and Tommy. 

Now, staring at him as he leans against the doorframe, folding his arms over his chest, I think about those times. I can’t help it. There are dark and grey hairs on his chest, peeking up above the top button. I remember how his heart feels under there from the time I had to stitch up a gash there. I remember his pulse, from keeping my finger on it all night when he was feverish from an infected knife wound. 

Tommy and I nursed him back, but I thought we’d lost him. 

I thought a lot of things.

And, well. There was no other choice. 

I left.

♥︎chapter 1/5♥︎

notes: if u wanna be on the taglist, let me know however you'd like: in a reblog, reply, message, or an ask :) all interactions are appreciated, but comments and reblogs especially make my heart go brrr♡ happy tlou show day btw :D

[celestialspecial]

Such Sharp Teeth

I needed to write a werewolf fic again, so many other writers i follow have been putting out bomb content so i had to join in <3

Writers notes: It's not true abo dynamics- some elements are featured but it doesn't follow truly, it is reader insert but MC's name is Aurora-

also go read @becauseicantthinkwritings Objects in Motion, hooooly shittt

Warnings: 18+themes, graphic descriptions of body transformation, insinuated non con elements, reader digression advised :)

All you could feel was the cool air on your skin, blowing through your hair as the moon glowed overhead. You felt strong, powerful. It was exhilarating and freeing all at once. The beauty of the forest surrounding you as the sharp ribbons of silver moonlight cut in shards through the trees.

You could taste the air, smell bread being baked from miles away, hear people talking and animals scurrying away from you. The forest floor rose up time and again to meet your feet, every sensation heightened. It was a beautiful thing more often than not, but tonight was different. Tonight there was a sense of desperation inside of you.

A tinge of fear, footfalls echoing behind you, they were far but yet still so close. Too close for comfort. Howls rang out and you knew that you'd never escape keeping pace like this. Your breath grew ragged, no longer deep inhalations but tortured puffs. 

You could see your breath in the air before you and then you felt the pain surging through your body. Bones breaking, tissue tearing, muscles unraveling only to be knit back together in another form. You wanted to cry out at the pain but it’d only alert them to your location and that was far too dangerous. 

You could taste blood and feel tufts of fur spring up along your spine as it twisted and mangled its shape into something new. Your eyes blurred as you felt the bones in your face collapsing and extending, ears rising up and canines lengthening in your still too small mouth.

The next time your foot hit the ground it was no longer a foot, but a paw. The squelching sound of mud making contact with the pads of it. You had been running fast but now the speed was unparalleled. Heavy panting as you pushed yourself to the brink of exhaustion.

You still had miles to go but the howling was far off in the distance growing further away and that’s how you liked it. How it’d need to be for as long as it took you to figure out the next step.

The covers you woke up in were caked in mud, it crunched as you shifted in the bed, pattering to the floor surely creating a mess. You groaned stretching your arms overhead, human arms, the muscles sore and aching from how far you’d run last night. 

Even the edges of your feet and tips of your ears felt taut with tension and soreness. Rubbing a hand over your face, coming away with more dirt.

“Shit.”

“Shit is right, look at the state of this room.” A friendly face poked her head in through the doorway. She was tall, elegant limbs covered in a chunky sweater and leggings. Dark brown hair pulled up into a messy bun, light hazel eyes filled with a touch of mischief.

“I’m sorry, Celeste. I promise I’ll clean everything up.” She moved over to the side of the bed, holding a mug of something that smelled heavenly. Gesturing for you to take it, the heat seeping into the palms of your tired hands.

“I’m not worried about it. Here, drink. You need something to warm your bones.” You nodded taking a long drawn out sip. The liquid was chocolatey with a medicinal hint that washed over your tongue and seemed to heat your insides up almost immediately. 

“It should help with well…everything.” She gave a half hearted smile, shrugging one shoulder up, before adjusting the edge of her sweater. “You came a very long way.” You finished the drink, setting the mug into the side table next to you. The warmth began to leech into your bones finally and you felt immensely grateful for Celeste and her healing abilities. 

“I couldn’t stay. I had to…I just-time was running out.” The reassuring smile gave way to an earnest look of sympathy.

“They can kill you for this.” You swallowed thickly, all too aware of the dangers you had put yourself in. The odds hadn't been in your favor but you had to take a chance, to get away from home. Home. It felt a sham to even call it that. 

“I know. And I’m beyond grateful you letting me stay here the night but I promise I’ll be out of your hair soon.” Celeste made a waving gesture in the air, dismissing your words.

“Don’t be ridiculous, stay as long as you need.” The kindness created a fist in your throat, you’d been friends for years, writing letters back and forth since visiting often wasn’t allowed.

Rival pack members weren’t allowed to associate with one another more than their Alphas permitted.

You bit the inside of your cheek in an attempt to shove down the hatred and anger you felt for your pack. To call them such a thing felt like a crime in and of itself. They were horrible and controlling, to think of yourself free from them felt exciting and terrifying. 

“You could get in trouble.” You nearly whispered, even though no one was around to hear. She brushed off the notion.

“We’ll figure out a place for you to stay in the meantime. Has it started?” You gave a brief nod, not wanting to talk about it. The temperature of your skin, the cramping, that undeniable ache that shook you to your core. Like your body was no longer your own. It was infuriating and deliciously tortuous.

“Then in a few days when it’s over we can figure out what to do from there.”

“Your brother is gonna kill you.” 

“What he doesn’t know won’t kill him.”

“Speak for yourself.” Celeste only gave you a smirk before squeezing your shoulder in a comforting fashion.

“Alright up, I need to change these sheets. A dirty dog rolled all over in them.”

That night felt like hell, a worse cycle than you’d ever had before. The winges of pain and agony ached through your system. It felt like your body had been tossed into a blazing fire.

In fact that sounded much better than what you felt now. Heats were different for every pack member but you couldn’t recall a time when you wished you were unconscious instead of enduring it.

You had needed to get away from your town, your pack before this happened. Before you were tied to the worst man you’d ever had the displeasure of knowing.

You were his property in his mind and the idea of you turning him down, running away rather than accepting his forced mating had surely sent him into a rage. 

Maybe your body knew what had been coming and was throwing a fit in rebellion even now that you were in safe territory or maybe the strain and stress of escaping and being on the run had done you in.

Either way no matter how many cold showers you took, how many naps your forced yourself into, how many times your own hands attempted to hit their mark, it wasn’t enough.

Celeste had left a hearty brew of tea for you that was supposed to help, you’d chugged the whole thing down to the shock of your friend and still nothing. Or maybe it had helped and this was the edge being taken off.

Being hit by a bus felt less excruciating than this. 

You somehow managed to fall asleep and when you woke your mouth felt dry, the familiar ache between your legs remained unsatisfied.

You wanted to tear the pillows on the bed to pieces, watching the feathers explode and drift down around you as your screamed into the frigid air. 

You couldn’t even keep the window open for fear of Celeste's male pack members smelling you and paying an uninvited visit. Tipping off her brother that you were here, potentially getting her in loads of trouble.

Your fingers itched to tear open the window and taste the cold November breeze. Your nails scratched gouges in the white paint on the window sill as you stared longingly out at the frost bitten garden. 

A soft knock came at the door, seeing your friend slipping into the room with another pot of strong smelling tea. Celeste sat the tea down on the side table, noting your frustrating posture by the window.

“I’m sorry, I know exactly how you feel.” 

“I hate it.” It sounded like a whine, maybe it was but at this point you didn’t care. 

“I have to go out and run some errands in town but I promise it won’t be long. Drink the rest of this, I put something in it to help your frazzled nerves and maybe even get you to sleep.”

The thought of sleeping another 48 hours and waking up normal again sounded so enticing. 

“Thank you.” You crawled into bed staring out the window imagining running freely through the forest, only this time not away from something but towards something better.

Something that felt intangible right now. Tossing back a long swig from the tea pot and letting your eyes shutter close for however long they’d allow.

The hours crawled by and you felt yourself somewhere in a slumber and waking titration. Eventually you could see the sun was lower in the sky, mid to late afternoon maybe?

Your body groaned in revolt as you got up from the bed, joints creaking and popping, clasping the now empty teapot in your hands.

You could feel the sweat dripping down your brow, swiping at it, rubbing at your eyes anything to avoid feeling how warm your whole body felt.

Celeste hadn’t come home yet and you managed to scrub the pot clean, place it in the drying rack and wash a dish or two more. Just to feel useful for once.

Wanting to be the least invasive houseguest as you could, moving over to where the washroom was and folding some of the sheets spilling out of the dryer. The small menial tasks actually helped contain the disjointed feeling your body was experiencing.

The sound of a key being inserted into the side door, unlocking and closing alerted your ears that Celeste was home. You felt too tired and pained to call out to her, instead waiting to see her face pop around the corner, but it didn’t. 

Footsteps echoed across the wooden floor and sounds of bags being dropped onto the kitchen island, accompanied by the soft sound of items, perhaps fruit, falling out and rolling along the granite. Then you smelled it.

The most intoxicating scent that had ever graced your nose. It was pine trees and fresh crisp air, like looking up into the night sky on a winter evening. It had a bite at first that smoothed into a warm rich earthy quality. There was even a hint of spice, it overtook every one of your senses, like you’d been bathed in it.

This wasn’t Celeste. 

Your ears strained to listen to anything this visitor was doing, whoever it was they had a key. Fuck. Celeste hadn’t told anyone you were here. Your muscles tensed, noticing all sounds from the kitchen had ceased.

Attempting to pad as quietly as you could out of the washroom, venturing a quick look into the kitchen. Sure enough there were grocery bags with oranges spilling out onto the island but no one around.

Silence.

If you could just sneak to the back door, you could see it from your point of view. One quick leap and you’d be gone and able to shift and disappear into the fast approaching night.

One step, then another. You were always known for being quiet in your pack, able to sneak up on any prey. This was no different.

Another few steps and you’d be home free. You felt the cool wooden floor kiss the tips of your toes before the strongest force you’d ever felt knocked you from your feet.

Your legs barely touched the ground before your back was slammed into the nearest wall, tauntingly so close to the back door. Large strong hands held you in place, your shoulders pinned against the drywall.

The scent you’d smelled before consumed you, your traitorous body arching against the wall towards the source.

“Who are you?” The voice was deep, a hint of gravel. Male. You felt your vision clearing from your head smacking against the hard surface to see sure enough a large man in front of you.

He was tall, towering over you, lean and athletic, muscles strained under his white shirt, corded along his forearms down to his hands that stilled you.

You felt the anxious pull to look down, to not meet his eyes. The undeniable mark of an alpha, it irked you to no end. Taking a steadying breath you fought your body, looking up into his face.

He was handsome, carved from rock and earth and dusted with something you couldn’t quite place. 

Dark brown hair that fell across his forehead, the sides were closely cropped but the rest hung longer, down to eyes that were such a deep brown you could lose yourself in them easily.

You could only imagine how radiant they’d look, flecks of gold catching the light when he smiled, but right now they were cold, calculating. The air caught in your throat, a choking noise all you could muster.

Your arms flexed against the wall, knowing you couldn’t escape but dying to, begging to. His nostrils flared, you watched the pupils in his eyes dilate, consuming the already deep brown gazing back at you. His fingers gripped you tighter.

“I said…who are you? Why are you in my sisters house?” 

“I…I.” Your brain couldn’t form words, not now. The scent of him, the feel of his touch against your heated skin, you could feel dampness spreading between your legs, the slow ache building inside your body clawing to get out.

Your inner wolf was barely continued under your skin, a popping sensation in your ears, the room felt like it was spinning.

It was like he could sense everything going on in your body, the way his eyes roamed ravenously over your flushed skin, his fingers flexing against your arms, the intensity of his gaze.

It was a split second but you could feel his face pressed into the crook of your shoulder, hear him inhale you deeply. Groaning as he exhaled, there would be bruises on your body where he gripped you so tightly.

You couldn’t hide the gasp that left your lips feeling his hips pressed against your own, his arousal evident. You felt your hands reaching for his back and his grip lessened enough to let you, your nails scraping against his muscled back through his shirt.

The noise he made rumbled in his chest, you could nearly feel it reverberating through your own body. The scratch of stubble scraping against the soft skin of your neck as he breathed deeply the scent of your heat and your legs yearned to be wrapped around his waist and carried to the nearest flat surface.

A bed, the couch, the floor-

“Hey, HEY!” You felt his hands fall from your arms as another voice rang through the room.

Celeste was wedging herself between the two of you, arms out protectively in front of you. “Billy! What the fuck are you doing here?!”

The man before you took a step back, his eyes were still pitch black, his chest heaving, fingers clenching and unclenching as if testing that they were truly not holding you anymore. 

“Celeste. You know this woman?” 

“I do! This is Aurora, she’s-she's my friend.” His eyes narrowed on you.

“I don’t recall ever being introduced to her before.”

Celeste glanced worriedly between the two of us, I nodded at her, the most encouragement I could offer at the moment.

“She’s…uh…. She left her pack.” His eyes widened a touch, lips parting, taking a solid deep breath before looking back at Celeste.

“Celeste….” His words were a warning, tinged with anger, frustration, concern…

“I know! But she needed to get out of there, they were gonna force her to mate with a homicidal maniac of an alpha!”

“An alpha?” His tone was harsh and abrupt, rubbing the bridge of his noise, lines forming on his brow. “Jesus Christ, Celeste. Do you know how dangerous this is? To us? To the pack?”

“Forced Mating, Billy! That’s barbaric!” He sighed, leaning back against the kitchen counter, running a hand through his already mussed hair. 

“It is. I know that as much as you, but some packs…still participate in the old ways…” his words weren’t convincing anyone, you could see it in the strained expression on his face.

You drew a steady breath , hesitantly pushing away from the wall you had just been pinned to. You missed the feeling of heat from his body being so close to yours already.

“I…I can leave. No. I think I should, Celeste, he’s right. This is dangerous you guys can get in a lot of trouble hiding a rival pack member. If you were to get caught it could be…it could be bad.” 

Billy and Celeste both were looking back at you, you could see the similarities between the two. The dark hair and long lean stature, Billy’s eyes were significantly darker, but they shared similar noses and mannerisms. How they stood, staring you down, intimidating and beautiful.  

“Rory…where would you go?” Your friend sounded so incredibly sad, it broke your heart. “Plus it’s not safe…”

“Once my cycle is over, I’ll leave.” Billy watched you with the focus of a pack leader and in the way only a wolf could. At the mention of your heat you noticed how his nostrils flared, chest rising into a territorial puff. “I’ll find somewhere to go.” 

Celeste walked over to you, grabbing your hand and pulling you into a hug. You held her tightly, the overwhelming feeling of fear and frustration from your body and emotions beginning to take a tighter hold of you. 

“Wait.” A deep sigh came from where Billy stood. “We can figure…something out. Until you have a safe place to go.” His dark eyes were no longer black orbs but the brown had returned, a softness, and something else danced across them as he spoke to you.

“But-“ he raised a finger, the look of admonishment towards his younger sibling. “Do NOT let anyone else know she’s here until I say, and make sure she stays in the house until... well until it’s safe.” 

You watched as he gathered his keys from the island, turning to walk across the kitchen, his heavy motorcycle boots louder than they had felt before, followed by the sound of the door closing behind him.

You knew what you had seen in his eyes, because you could feel it just as deeply. Longing. And something just below the surface, barely concealed but there nonetheless.

[systastic]

Our headmate is a moth, he'd love a dim, but cottagecore aesthetic headspace, if that's possible! something with a library for our archivist, though!

möth… we have a moth shifter too!! :] needed a bit of a brain break from alters ghsjfhs, so many level threes to do and yet so little progress… -🌳

Dark Cottagecore Headspace

Cabin in the Woods

Those who reside in the house have an acute awareness of the outside world and what is happening in the body’s day to day life beyond the bounds of their imagined realm. Any others who live in spaces beyond the house are NPCs and nothing more. The cabin itself is an expansive place; hallways twist and turn, wood creaking under your feet, as the house itself guides people where they want to be. Each headmate has a room of their own within the cabin that they can decorate and alter to their heart’s content.

Gated Greenhouse

A large greenhouse that sits next to the cabin in the woods. It feels out of place at first sight: what is a large and ornate building doing here? Stepping inside reveals the truth: this is the fronting room used to control the body. Here, they may control the body, passively view the world around them, or offer commentary on what is occurring at the moment. Current fronters see what the body sees through the glass windows of the greenhouse.

Blackwood Pond

Deep, still waters sit nestled a few yards away from the house. The pond is used as a communal memory pool; anyone who dips into its waters can wade through the depths and dredge up memories that the body keeps hold of. It is surprisingly cool in the pond, and better still, no leeches in sight. Clusters of fireflies flock to the banks of the pond come nighttime, depositing new memories from the day and milling about in peace.

Unattended Tea Party

A dirt path winds through the trees to the left of the cabin. Situated at the end in the middle of a clearing is a round table with chairs pulled up next to it. This place, though odd, is always stacked with snacks, refreshments, and other odds and ends for the residents of the Cabin to use. It used to be governed by the Mad Hatter — maybe that’s why the tea tastes so strange?

Wooden Hollow

Darkness surrounds you. Rot and dead leaves squelch under your feet. Things that are better off not remembered or repressed are all shoved into the hollow, far out of sight. Delving into the depths can earn pearls of wisdom or long-forgotten snippets that can be essential for the body to know. Beware, cavern-dwellers: not all of the things found within the hollow are as simple to handle as stray memories. Rumors speak of repressed alters and irredeemable persecutors trapped at the bottom for their crimes… Let’s hope those rumors aren’t true.

Fairy Ring

Wishing upon a star is good in theory, but it won’t get you very far in an imaginary world. A seemingly ordinary ring of mushrooms solves that problem in a snap thanks to the help of fae magic. Unlike most fairy rings, this one doesn’t spirit the person away never to be seen again. Instead it serves as a quick and easy teleportation device to take alters from the Cabin and its surroundings to either the Mirelands or Briarwood. How very convenient! Some say it can take you to other realms, too - but no one quite knows if that’s true or not.

Archivist’s Spire

What is a librarian without their library? Bored, that’s what. Fortunately for the occupants, the Archivist’s Spire is crammed full of all sorts of knowledge. Need to know about what the body did in fourth grade? It’s in here. Childhood memories? That’s here, too. All of the non-communal memories are stored away in here with a sorting system that only archivists and other memory-keepers can understand. To everyone else, it’s merely a strange library that they can’t seem to unlock.

Briarwood

Some ways away from the cabin is a sleepy little town chock full of NPCs. People of all sorts live here: an aging old woman and her spry adult son, a new family with redhead twins, those who spin rumors and tales alike, and a handful of shopkeepers that always seem to know just what people need. It’s more of a distraction than anything; since the people here are not alters, it’s a nice place to go if you want to get away from real life.

image source here

The Mirelands

At the far edges of the headspace, beyond the lush forests and rolling hills, lays a dark and swampy area known as the Mirelands. This place is the center of all myths and rumors that the NPCs spread: vicious monsters, ghostly apparitions, tricky little fae, and more. It’s not recommended to visit the Mirelands unless you’ve got a serious thirst for a fight. Stay here for too long and you may get “gloom rom” - a mysterious affliction that saps a headmate’s energy, leaving them sluggish and blurry.

[twistedwonderlandfantasies]

How the Leech twins rail you 💦🦐 (NSFW)

(Polyamory)

Fem!reader

18+

I have no shame 😪

- Floyd loves teasing you into oblivion. “Hey, Jade, look at how shrimpy squirts when I do this~” He says with the smuggest face while pushing three long slender digits back into your squelching cunt. He looks at you while he does it too. You’re not allowed to take your eyes off him, either, if you do he’ll only finger-fuck you faster. “Shrimpy~ didn’t I say to look at me? Don’t turn away. I wanna see that adorable face you make when I touch you here~” he’ll then rub his index finger over the sweet spot in your cunt, eliciting the most erotic moans he’s heard your lips shamelessly spill while clenching around his fingers as your body prevents him from pulling out.

- Jade would watch closely, savoring the sight of your pussy dripping pools of liquid underneath you from his brothers doing. Jade is however more tender with you; he’d lean in to give The sweetest kiss on your lips while whispering praises. “You’re so good. Look at how irresistible your body is. Can you cum for me like that when I fuck you?” He says while hands tenderly run across your body in awe of your beauty. The noises of your cunt is enough to make his cock twitch. “It’s a shame to let all of that go to waste, let me drink it.” He smiles, but theres no hiding the intention behind his expression. The next thing you know is his mouth hungrily sucking against your folds, long tongue collecting all the cum you had spilled earlier before sliding into your hole to taste more.

- If you are in a daring mood, as to not obey Floyd, be ready for getting teeth and hand marks on your ass and thighs. The last thing you want to do is turn him sour while he’s enjoying you. He will make, or force you to apologize. Floyd has a sadistic streak (obv) and doesn’t just want any apology. Oh, no, he wants it with you crying and yelling under him. He wants to feel your body convulsing from overstimulation as he continues thrusting into you so hard your head is practically hitting the headboard of the bed.

- If your apology is sincere enough he might just forgive you, otherwise his next position is doggy, hand gripping your hair so your neck is craned to where he can lean in over you and whisper in your ear. “Is this what you wanted, shrimpy? To get painfully fucked? If this is how you like it we can always do it like this, then~” the way his voice hitches desperately with the pace of his thrusts is sexy enough to send you over the edge then and there.

- All the while Jade is underneath you, sucking and fondling with your breasts. His one hand might move lower to stimulate your clit while the other gropes you. “Floyd, keep this pace, I do so like when Y/N’s breasts bounce in this rhythm.” He’ll make sure your buds are red and sore from his mouth and fingers.

- If you’re willing, they’d take you from both sides. Floyd would want your ass so he could grip it, leaving bruises of where his fingers were later on. Jade is, well, the more proper of the two, opting for your pussy. While the pace might start out bearable, by the end of it both twins will be tearing you apart selfishly chasing their highs. So expect no mercy from either of them.

- As far as kinks go, Jade enjoys roleplay. You’d walk into his room dressed in some skimpy maid outfit, skirt short enough to show your ass and the top has a boob window. He’d have just finished his shift, tiredly sitting on his bed still in uniform before seeing you come in. “Y/N… what a lovely surprise.” Suddenly his fatigue is gone. Everything with Jade is slow and sensual; hot, burning, almost torturous. He’ll wraps his arms around your waist, kissing you gently before asking to enter with his tongue. Hands would begin to slide up your back, undoing the ribbon holding your outfit together. His lips trail down your chin to the crevice of your neck where he sucks on your favorite spot, careful his teeth don’t pierce your skin. You feel yourself leaning into him, hands holding onto his suspenders as your legs begin to weaken from the aching between them. Don’t worry, Jade will pick you up by the thighs to hold you against the wall. “You look so wonderful… it’s almost a shame this has to come off.”

- Floyd has a choking kink. His hand might not leave your neck for the entire session, actually. Or his arms would wrap around you from behind as you sit between his legs on the bed, back against his chest. He’d squeeze you by the waist, boobs, thighs, even your arms. This man has enough grip strength to break bones if he wanted to, but with you its just enough to leave bruises when he wants it, where he wants it.

- These two sly fuckers also have a thing for public sex. You wouldn’t expect it from Jade at first, but at this point you’ve learned he can have a dirty side to him. Not nearly as bad as Floyd, though, that man is a walking danger zone sign. “Y/N, come try this new drink I’ve created.” Jade calls you over as you were sitting at a table with a few friends in the busy lounge. You of course come, always happy to try his creations. “This is good!” You nod, looking at him gleefully. Jade smiles in response, sliding his arm around your waist. “I’m so glad you like it. I think I can make it even better, though.” He coos into your ear before his hand goes lower, palming your pussy. The bar covers you two from the waist down, but the blush that spreads across your face is something you can’t hide.

-They both enjoy pool sex. Its just fun seeing you try and swim away, laughing off the very dangerous, sexy situation your in. “The water temperature is quite nice today…” you make futile small talk. “don’t be coy, shrimpy~ Jade made it colder so we could help warm each other up, heh.” You send a glare at Jade, but he only snickers like usual. Suddenly Floyd dives under water and you lose sight of him. Oh god, what the hell is he gonna do this time? Yank. You get pulled down by the ankle. Jade follows suit, swimming to you to then breathe air into your lungs through a kiss while Floyd lets you go to continue your game of tag once more.

- The twins will never leave you bored, honestly. They love seeing you in every stage: climaxing, coming down from your high, the way you get flustered, when your bratty, moody, stubborn, when you’re the one teasing them, they love all of it. Those eels are totally enamoured with you, and everyone knows it. They even know it a little too well with how loud the twins make you scream sometimes. Who knew humans were so attractive?

[frillyfacefins]

Fun-Filled Fizzie Fucking - Chapter 4

Fandom: Helluva Boss Rating: Explicit Pairing: Ozzie/Fizzarolli Tags: Recreational Drug Use, Drugged Sex, long elaborate smut in multiple chapters, Heavy BDSM, BondageOther Additional Tags to Be Added, Weed Brownies, no beta we‘re already in hell, Food Play, not really food kink this time though, nausea play in second chapter but it‘s completely skippable, kind of bad bdsm etiquette, ozzie tries his best but fizzy is still fizzy, Rimming, Showers, Dirty Talk, So Much Dirty Talk Additional Tags for Chapter 4: Fucking Machines, Dom/sub, Subdrop, only beginning though they catch it before it goes too far, Gags, Bratting, Sex Toys, Daddy Dom Ozzie, Bratty Sub Fizzarolli Word Count Chapter 4: 4,796

Also on AO3

Chapter 1 II Chapter 2 II Chapter 3

Summary:

Photoshoots always left Fizz feeling as if somebody had shoved a TENS-unit up his ass and followed it with an espresso enema. ~~~ Fizzarolli comes home high off adrenaline after a big day and gets lovingly brought down by Ozzie with the help of some weed brownies and a new toy Ozzie has been working on…

Well, posting the last chapter of a fic about a pairing that was still a rare-pair when you started/wrote most of it and that is now such a big thing sure is a new experience for me :')

I'm always happy to get nice comments on ao3, but also if you reblog this here I absolutely love that too!

Anyway, here's the last chapter, have fun and mind the new tags!

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He was immediately cocooned in a gigantic fluffy towel and rubbed down with the same gentle thoroughness Ozzie had used to soap him up earlier. He was already too warm, so the towel made him feel even more stifled, but he accepted the care, especially since he could feel Ozzie walk out of the bathroom and towards their bedroom while he was gently drying his head.

The towel landed on the floor by the bedroom‘s entrance, and so did the shower cap, to be cleaned up by one of the succu-housemaids later. Ozzie, still wet from the shower, nuzzled against Fizz’ forehead for a moment before he put him down on the bed and quickly heated up his own body so the moisture still in his feathers would evaporate. The gust of hot air made Fizz wiggle in a mixture of discomfort and anticipation. The satin sheets only felt pleasantly cool against his skin for a second before his own body heat leeched into them.

“Ozzieeee,” he whined, his eyes glued to his royal lover‘s back. He had walked over to a shelf and was fucking around with something that wasn’t Fizz’s ass and thus obviously completely irrelevant in Fizz’ lust-addled mind. He felt soft, pliant, hot, like a tray of brownies ten minutes out of the oven, and somebody really fucking needed to eat him or he was going to turn to fucking stone.

(The weed having kicked in fully by now didn’t help his already whirling mind come up with decent metaphors, either.)

“Don’t worry baby, daddy’s here,“ Ozzie cooed somewhere to his right as the mattress sagged with his weight. Fizz realized only now that he had closed his eyes, and he opened them just in time to see Ozzie grab his leg before he pulled him into position so he could get to his ass more comfortably. Fizzarolli immediately grabbed his own legs and pulled them open to give Ozzie plenty of access.

He hadn’t seen what Ozzie had grabbed from the shelf, but he wasn‘t surprised to feel a generously lubed finger push into him. Ozzie finger-fucked him for a few delightful moments, then he pulled out and came back with more lube. That repeated another two times, and Fizz was just about to make a stink about how he didn’t need any more lube but he really needed more than a finger, when finally something else was pushing against his entrance. He looked down to see the base of the transparent beaded butt plug with the glitter in it. He frowned as the first two beads slipped into his hyper-slippery hole with hardly even a squelch.

“Ozzie, I swear to fucking Satan, why the fuck is that not your dick?!”

Ozzie winced, but pushed one more bead into him; at least this one, Fizz actually felt. “We talked about this, Fizzlecakes, no other Sin’s names in the bedroom…”

Fizz rolled his eyes and pushed back to make the next bead push into him faster. Oh, yes, that was more like it. Still not as good as Ozzie’s cock would have felt, though.

“Yeah yeah, gonna swear to fucking Bobo the Clown next time, but seriously, Ozzie??”

Ozzie leaned forward and nuzzled against his face. Fizz wanted to stay angry with him, but both the nuzzle and the next bead – this one a little bigger than the size of his own fist – made the addition of anger to his fuzzy mind way too complicated.

“I told you earlier that I’ve got a specific kind of game in mind, right? I need you really, really lose for that, baby.”

Fizz had a fuzzy memory of Ozzie talking about “very specific fun”, but that might as well have been a month ago with how completely unrelated it felt to his current situation.

He still let out a stubborn whine, even though the next bead made him feel nearly full enough to stop the pain of the unbearable vacuum inside of him where Ozzie’s cock should be.

“I know, baby,” Ozzie soothed him as he started to work in the last and biggest bead of the plug – more a ball than a bead, really. “I’m gonna fill you up all nice, then I’m going to put a blindfold on you and get the toy I’ve been working on, alright? And then you’ll get the pounding of your life, I promise.”

“Ozziiieee, that’s gonna take way too looong,” Fizz sobbed, raising his hips hungrily to make the rest of the plug slip in faster. His arms shot out to grab at Ozzie’s fluff and pull him in to just fuck him right now, immediately (not a thought in his head about how much time it would take to pull out the beaded plug again safely).

But Ozzie just let out a few gentle clucks and untangled his robotic hands from his mane as gently as if they had actual fingers that could get hurt if they got stuck.

“Either you’re good now, or daddy’s gonna stick a vibe egg right here,” he pushed at the base of the plug and finally slipped the rest of the last, grapefruit-sized bead in. “And then you’ll lie here and think long and hard about why it would have been better to let daddy stick to his plans instead of being a greedy, impatient little brat…”

Fizz let out a desperate keen, both from the absolutely delicious stretch and the excruciating thought of having to lie here with all of that silicone not only inside of him, but a vibrator making all of those beads judder and torturing his sensitive, hungry hole while it was still not getting fucked…

“So what’s it gonna be, baby?” Ozzie asked, his long, slippery fingers rubbing through his crack up to his tail and giving the sensitive bit of skin right below a firm, nearly punishing massage.

“Gonna be good, big daddy,” Fizz mewled, desperately gasping for air, unable to keep his ass from trying to wriggle away from Ozzie’s fingers on that oversensitive spot. That wriggling of course just made him feel the plug’s tip deep in his guts, punching another overwhelmed gasp out of him.

The touch below his tail stopped.

“That‘s my good Fizzy-frog,” he rumbled, then he leaned forward to nuzzle against Fizz’ cheek. His fingers rubbed up and down his cock twice, in a nearly soothing rhythm, before he finally gave his hip a squeeze and pulled away.

Fizz had thought he had been too hot earlier, but now that Ozzie’s body heat completely retreated, he felt suddenly very, very cold.

“Don‘t leave, Ozzie…” His voice came out weaker than before, hardly more than a whimper.

Ozzie immediately looked up from where he had been taking a blindfold out of the nightstand drawer. He dropped the blindfold on the bed and leaned over Fizzy again, cupping his face gently as he looked him in the eyes.

Fizz felt the cold retreat.

“I just need to be gone for a minute at most, baby,“ Ozzie said, and immediately the dread crept back into Fizz’ chest. It must have also crept onto his face, because Ozzie kissed his cheeks and his forehead and gently ran his hand over his hat. “How about I give you the bubble sheet? You can count the bubbles, and I’ll be back in no time.”

Fizz made a face. His discomfort was pushing him into a slightly different headspace, but at least that made him feel more mopey than, well… alone.

“Okay. Also the chewy-gag,” he said.

“Whatever my Fizzy-baby wants,“ Ozzie cooed, and Fizz was very proud of himself for not just answering that what he really wanted was for Ozzie to just fuck him. He knew that he’d be really glad that he had been patient later, because when Ozzie surprised him with something in the bedroom, it usually ended with Fizz getting both his mind and his back blown out in the most intense and devious way possible. But right now he felt like a mopey baby and he wanted Ozzie to be here, not somewhere that wasn’t here.

Ozzie cooed and kissed him for another few moments, then he got up to get the bubble sheet from Fizz’ fidget toy chest and the custom-made gag with the chewy mouth-bit from the same shelf the butt plug had come from. He sat back down and kissed his face a few more times, then he trailed more kisses down his chest, making Fizz feel all happy and soft again.

Suddenly Ozzie blew a raspberry on his belly and Fizz let out a yell and nearly propelled himself off the bed – which would have been a very dumb thing to do with that gigantic butt plug still inside of him. A good thing, then, that Ozzie was holding onto his legs at the same time so he couldn’t get away.

“Ozzie!!!” Fizz groused, but when he saw the grin on all three of Ozzie’s faces, he absolutely couldn’t be mad at him.

“That’s more like it,” Ozzie said, then he held the chewy pillow-shaped mouth part of the gag against his lips. “Say ah?”

Fizz rolled his eyes and did, indeed, say “Ah!” It was silly, but he did suddenly feel way better, as if he’d been slowly sinking into quicksand and that raspberry had been a cartoon kangaroo grabbing him and pulling him out in one powerful jump. He could still feel his heart beat in his ears when he closed his mouth around the gag and started to suck on it like an oversized binky.

Ozzie led the strap of the gag around behind Fizz’ head and secured it with the quick-release buckle on Fizz’ cheek. He pressed the bubble sheet into his hand, then he laid the padded leather eye-mask they used as blindfold on his face. Fizz could feel warm, large fingertips caress his cheek.

“You good, baby?” Ozzie asked.

Fizz buried his molars in the gag and nodded.

Ozzie gently lifted his head and fastened the velcro of the eye-mask. “See, I knew you could be good.” Fizz felt a kiss on his cheek, between the strap of the gag and the mask, then the fidget toy was put in his hand. A moment later, Ozzie’s weight vanished and his warmth retreated again.

Fizz kept gnawing on the chew toy and tried to map the bubble toy with one hand. He started to push bubbles in one by one, counting them while he did his best to slowly breath through his nose. The gag was making him drool, though it was better than with most ball gags. Fizz liked having gags in his mouth, more than Ozzie liked gagging him, actually (Ozzie generally preferred to hear any noises Fizz would gift him with), but he still had mixed feelings about the drooling. It was awesome when Ozzie’s dick was in his mouth, and drooling while he was getting fucked just added to the general feeling of debauchery, but when he was just waiting with a gag in his mouth, it sometimes did feel unpleasant, unattractive, helpless…

He could have used his hands to wipe the drool away. Ozzie hadn’t tied him down. But he didn’t want to touch the gag with his hands – that wasn’t his place, that was Ozzie’s privilege, the only part of him that got to touch the gag was his mouth. It was Ozzie’s job to clean him up. If Ozzie didn’t want him clean, Fizz wasn’t going to be clean.

That thought helped. Yes, the drool that was drying on his chin still felt unpleasant, but that was okay. Ozzie liked it when he got messy in bed. Ozzie liked the way Fizz looked when he lost control. It was alright. It was just like it was supposed to be.

He kept counting bubbles.

Just when he was finished with the second row, he heard Ozzie come back into the room. There was a noise like something heavy and metal was being put down, then some squeaking and grinding sounds.

The bed dipped, and Ozzie’s hand was back, opening the quick-release of Fizz’ gag.

“See, I’m back already. No time at all, right? Come on, spit that out, baby.”

Fizz opened his mouth wide so Ozzie could get the gag out without getting it caught on his sharp teeth. The blindfold didn’t come off, but Ozzie took the opportunity to push his thumb against Fizz’ tongue and caress his spit-slick cheek with his palm. Fizz sighed through his nose as he closed his lips around Ozzie’s finger and gave it a suckle. He tasted like metal.

He felt Ozzie bend over him, the fluff of his mane tickling his shoulders. Ozzie’s breath was on his face, a strange kind of silence hanging between them that he couldn’t read because he still couldn’t see shit, but then Ozzie pulled his thumb out of Fizz’ mouth and kissed him hard and deep.

Fizz let go of the bubble sheet and wrapped all of his limbs around Ozzie, his arms and legs looping twice around his body, his tail sliding up Ozzie’s arm and clinging to it like a climbing plant. All his apprehension melted in the heat of Ozzie’s body and he gave himself up to his mouth. For a moment he felt he might be able to liquify and seep into Ozzie, fuse with him like one of those creepy deep-sea fish, or like lichen on a tree, so he never had to be anywhere but right where Ozzie was.

Ozzie stood up without breaking the kiss and carried Fizz off the bed and in the direction of the bedroom window. He stopped after just two steps, though, and went down on his knees, as far as Fizz could tell just by feeling his movement.

“Retract,” he ordered, and Fizz immediately did. He completely let go of Ozzie, whose hands were securely cradling his body, and went limp as Ozzie turned him around. “Elbows and knees.”

Fizz let Ozzie put him down on something that felt like leather, very new leather, still a little stiff, but not uncomfortable, exactly the right size for his upper body. His metal limbs, which were hanging off the leather cushion or whatever it was, clinked against something that was also metal, maybe metal rods of some sort. He could feel them move, and then there were restraints, and he felt his limbs getting strapped against the rods. He tried to create a mental image of whatever device he was getting strapped into right now. It felt a lot like a normal spanking bench, though those usually didn’t let his crotch hang as freely as this one. And he’d also usually have his arms and legs bound to the legs of the bench itself, not these rods that were very much adjustable, as he soon figured out when the rods his legs were strapped to moved farther apart, forcing him to spread his thighs. The pressure of the plug inside of him was a little unpleasant now that he was lying on his belly, but it also pushed against his prostate way more insistently now. He squirmed while Ozzie did something that resulted in a few clicking sounds. His impatience was coming back, mixing with slight confusion and burning anticipation until he couldn’t help a pained little whine coming out of him.

There was a big hand on his back now, gently rubbing up and down between his shoulder blades. “Are you alright, Fizzy? I need you to stay in this position for a while.”

“Ozzie, please,” Fizz whimpered. He tried to grab that hand with his tail to pull it farther down. “I’ve been so good, can’t you just—“

“Fizz, focus” Ozzie”s voice stopped him. He sounded serious, commanding, hot enough for Fizz’ cock to start dripping again. “I need to know if you can hold this position.”

Fizz took a deep breath and tried to check in with himself. Everything felt so loose and fluffy, more like cotton candy than flesh and bones. He tried to start at the bottom and go up. His hips were alright, bis back too, but…

“Shoulders,” he said.

“Up or down?”

“Down please.”

He could hear Ozzie’s smile in his voice. “Well done, baby.”

The adjustable rods that his arms were strapped to moved a little, pulling his arms down just an inch or so and allowing his shoulders to relax properly. Ozzie’s hand was still between his shoulder blades, feeling for the tension that had been bothering Fizz.

“Better?”

Fizz nodded. “Yes, daddy.”

“Good boy…” Ozzie’s large hand ran down his back, skimming the base of his tail. “Now that you’re all cozy and loose, let’s get this thing out of you, hm?” He gave the base of the beaded plug a little tug, but instead of just pulling it out right away, Fizz heard him squeeze some more lube onto his fingers, which he immediately started to massage into the skin of Fizz’ stretched rim. Once his skin was slippery enough for Ozzie’s taste, he slowly started to pull out the first bead.

The beaded plug wasn’t quite as bad as regular anal beads, where pulling them out one by one was half the fun of the whole exercise. But it was still intense to feel his hole stretch once again to let that largest bead slip out. The relief that washed over him when it popped out was short-lived, because Ozzie immediately slipped a wet finger into his hole to rub more lube into the tissue just inside of him. Of course he appreciated that Ozzie just really didn‘t want him to tear, but it also made something deep in his loins bubble up. Ozzie was always careful, sure, but if he was being this thorough, it usually meant that something big was coming. This was pre-fisting behavior.

His speculations were interrupted when Ozzie pulled out the next bead, added some more lube, and then went for the next two in quick succession. Fizz’ body was boiling again, his mind by now too sluggish and woozy from the brownies to really concentrate on anything but the beads slipping out of him one by one. The only thought that did make it all the way from his brain into his awareness — a recollection of that time Ozzie had stuffed him with eggs and a good half-gallon of lube and had him squeeze out every single one of them — wasn‘t exactly helpful either.

“There we go,” Ozzie said as the last few beads dropped out of Fizz’ hole without any resistance. Fizz was kind of curious just how big his gape was right now. Judging by the way Ozzie had to use three fingers for him to actually feel any stretch, it had to be massive.

“You have been so good, Froggie baby, so patient…” Ozzie rumbled as he fingered even more lube into his open, waiting hole. “Are you ready to get your reward?”

Fizz nodded frantically and pushed his ass backwards as far as he could with his thighs tied to the metal rods. “Daddy, please,” he whined, though it came out more slurry and wet this time than before. The fingers and the cool lube inside of him made him shiver, and he could feel himself sweat where his upper body was pressed against the leather cushion and drip where his stiff cock was just far enough from that cushion that he could’t hump against it. He felt trapped and hot and as if he was about to fucking explode, too strung-out on both Ozzie’s foreplay and the anticipation of what he was working towards to even continue begging. He was on the brink of something, hanging by a thread, and even though he knew Ozzie had him, would always have him, he didn‘t know how much longer he could hang on.

But Ozzie knew. Ozzie always knew.

There was the noise of more metal parts being adjusted, then something that felt like the tip of a dildo slipped into Fizz’s waiting, open hole.

Fizz was about to break down in tears because that STILL wasn’t Ozzie’s cock. How much longer was he going to do this to him? Hadn’t he said that he had been good, that he was going to get a reward, so why was he still—

But then he heard the flip of a switch and the dildo started to move deeper.

And deeper.

And deeper.

It moved at such a consistent, unwavering speed, not only going deeper but stretching his rim wider and wider, that Fizz nearly started to panic when it kept moving beyond the point the plug had penetrated inside of him and stretched him more than the biggest bead had before. For a second he forgot where he was and who he was and that Ozzie was right beside him and thought that this thing was going to keep moving, that it was going to rip through his guts and into his lungs and his heart and force its way through blood and gore to come out of his mouth as if he was a chicken being roasted on a stick, but then the forward movement stopped, and it started to slowly move back again.

But once again Fizz didn’t have time to feel relieved — because that dildo had some kind of soft barbs at its underside that had been flush with its length when it had pushed in, but which were now dragging against his colon walls and especially his prostate on their way out of him. Fizz’ head snapped up when he felt that, and his mouth dropped open on a silent whimper.

He heard Ozzie’s chuckle when the dildo stopped moving again, just deep enough inside of him for Fizz to still feel it. As the whole process started over, he felt Ozzie’s hand on his shoulder and then on the back of his head. He blinked into the dim light of their bedroom as Ozzie pulled off the eye mask.

Fizz wanted to say something. ‘You’re fucking killing me, Ozz’ maybe, or just a nice long string of ‘fuck’s, but the dildo came back faster this time and even though it did not actually push as far as his lungs, it still took his breath away. The only thing that came out of his mouth was a desperate keen like that of a dying animal when it pulled back again, also faster than before.

“You get why I needed you really, really relaxed, baby?” Ozzie cooed at him, cradling his jaw in one hand so he could push his chin up and see every tiny expression of his. His eyes looked like two thin slits of neon light in the deep blue of his face. The dildo started to move into him once more, again a little faster, but Fizz still had just enough of his mental capacity left to notice that Ozzie was breathing harder, too. A deep shiver ran through his body, a touch of lightning that warred with the expanding, boiling lust inside of him for just a second before the two merged. Ozzie was feeding off him, sharing his lust without any more of a touch than the finger under his chin. Fizz could see his hard cock from the corner of his eye and his mouth watered just before the dildo pulled back again and sent him into a new wave of ecstasy.

The movements of the dildo got faster and faster, and his mind was soon completely filled with the electric storm of an incredible fuck after thorough, torturous foreplay. But even as he started to moan and sob with every in- and out-movement, the scent of Ozzie’s arousal this close to him didn’t allow him to just completely let go.

“Ozzie,” he managed to push out around a low sob while the dildo’s soft barbs combed his insides, “fuck my — oh fuck!” He didn‘t manage to get all of it out, because the dildo was coming back and by now the thrusting was so fucking fast, just punching into him and pulling out, punching in, pulling out, faster and faster and faster…

There was no way he was going to be able to tell Ozzie what he wanted from him. So he just opened his mouth, let his tongue hang out and stared up at Ozzie through a veil of overwhelmed tears.

With his mouth open like this, Fizz couldn’t hold back any of the needy, wet, embarrassing noises or the dribbling of drool that the insistent, faster and faster thrusting of the fuck machine was forcing out of him. He was sobbing and grunting and squawking while he tried to hold eye-contact with Ozzie, who was still just watching him with an expression on his face as if he was looking at the most fascinating thing he had ever seen.

He let out a deep, insistent whine, because words just were not an option anymore. He felt like he was about to come at any moment. The dildo was moving so fast that he could hardly tell whether it was thrusting in or pulling out at any given moment. He needed Ozzie’s cock in his mouth so badly that he felt like he was going to die if he didn’t get it right this minute — for real this time, not like earlier when he had thought he’d die if he wasn’t going to get fucked soon, because obviously he had survived that long enough.

“Alright, baby…” Ozzie pressed out. His voice sounded like he was out of breath, his hand was trembling as he grabbed Fizz’ jaw harder, and when he used his other hand to finally, finally feed his cock into Fizz waiting, open mouth, it seemed like he missed on accident when he smeared his leaking tip over Fizz’ cheek before he locked in on the target.

The fuck machine was pistoning the dildo in and out of him at such a speed that Fizz stopped being a body and just became scalding, liquid energy. Ozzie filled his head with his cock and his taste and his scent, Fizz’ face was buried in the fuzz of his big, hard body, unable to breathe but also absolutely unable to care about that.

He didn’t know when he started to come, but it had to have happened at some point between him turning into liquid and the world bursting into white and red fireworks.

It would have been too much to say that he “blacked out”, but he also wasn’t really conscious for the next however many minutes. He only realized that the fuck machine had stopped and that Ozzie had untied him when he was lifted up and cradled against Ozzie’s fluffy chest, and he had no idea when exactly they had left the bedroom, but they were definitely in the bathroom now. There was a glass being pushed against his lips, and he realised that the inside of his mouth tasted like Ozzie’s jizz, which was a taste he loved when it was fresh but which was as vile as anybody else’s fluids the morning after. He took a sip of water, but apparently his throat was still shot from swallowing Ozzie all the way down while he was pretty literally getting fucked out of his mind, and he immediately started choking.

“Careful, froggy!” Ozzie immediately put the glass down and bent Fizz forward over one of his hands while he tapped his back with the other one. Fizz coughed up a good amount of jizz and spit before he finally felt like he could breathe again, then he let Ozzie give him some more water. This time he bent his head forward immediately after taking the sip and just shook it back and forth to rinse his mouth, then he spit again.

He shook his head the next time Ozzie offered him the glass, then he let himself be scooped up again. He buried his face in Ozzie’s chest while Ozzie carried him into the shower and slipped another shower cap over his hat. The warm water made him even more sleepy, and he began to drift in and out of consciousness while big, warm hands cleaned his completely fucked-out body. There was another big, fluffy towel, and the next time he managed to push his way through the heavy blanket of exhaustion, an actual blanket was covering him, and Ozzie was in the process of joining him under that blanket. He adjusted the cover over the both of them before he pulled Fizz close to him. Cocooned in warmth and softness and Ozzie’s beloved scent, Fizz finally let himself slip down into sleep.